


Fear

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, F/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:13:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 55,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4811042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Tom Beck</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).

The planet isn't much, he reflects, but it will do. Under the circumstances it will have to. Anywhere will do. He is in no position to quibble. Fontina is as good a place as any. After all, **he** chose it for this very purpose.

As he exits the shuttle onto the plasmac of the landing field, his eyes begin on their own to search around and behind him. He has survived only by expecting trouble and anticipating it. The cost bothers him only a little. His life is worth any number of sleepless nights.

Ahead of him bulks an observation tower. Without knowing why, he heads for it. A look at his new world may help him decide exactly what to do next.

He climbs the tower, using the stairs instead of the lift. He wants physical activity now; he has grown used to it, after years of sedentary intellectualizing. His previous life shielded him from hard labor, insulated him. Isolated him. He has learned the difference between life and work.

The view from the top is superb. It is an extremely tall tower. The day is bright and clear, despite the weakness of the sunlight. The only clouds seem to be hanging over the huge city far away to the north. He can see for miles in every direction. He feels lordly, for the first time in months. He surveys his new planet, his new city.

The spaceport looks the same as every other planet's. Hundreds of nondescript buildings are piled like children's blocks; pipelines crisscrossing in every possible direction, belching steam or possibly worse; huge ships and tiny shuttles strewn according to no imaginable plan; minuscule ground vehicles darting hither and thither and microscopic people crawling like ants. There is no order to the activity, no pattern. Too bad. He likes patterns.

He isn't sure if he has been followed here or not he has no way of making sure. He has done his best to hide, to cover his trail, to avoid detection. He wasn't always good at it. Recently he has gotten much better. He feels fairly confident now that he will not be caught. Not until...

So this is where I have ended up, he thinks, as he continues to catalog and inventory this world, his world. What little he knows of it. He hopes it is enough. Fontina isn't in the Federation now. The Galactic War has seen to that. When the troops left and the ships departed, the population here celebrated. But he can't see that what they have now is any better. Merely one oligarchy replacing another, it seems to him. Many of the oligarchs are the same, except that the taxes they collect they no longer send to Earth. He smirks sardonically, as he always does when contemplating his foolish fellow humans.

Time to disappear. Again. How many times, for how long? Planet to planet, new identity following new identity. He can't even remember all the names he's used, all the fake records and occupations, all the made-up backgrounds, all the lies. All the money he's stolen, or credit faked. It's so easy to do, he marvels, so easy to fool the idiots who man the checkpoints, immigration controls, customs stations, ticket offices, police barriers...he could probably even get to Earth without being caught.

But that's no solution. He can never escape. There is almost no pardon for what he's done. He shudders at what will happen to him if they find him. The only thing he fears is being caught...before he's ready.

He needs time. Time to carry his plan through. To atone. To win her back.

One last thing to do before leaving the spaceport. Into the huge terminal building he goes, looking for a public message center. He stops at a sanitary, enters a stall. From a hidden compartment inside his belt he withdraws a small square of plastic. It is the one thing he has left from the old days, the one piece of identification he has that isn't forged. This is only the fourth time he has risked using it.

At the PMC he must wait for a free booth. He cannot trust this message to the ears of those at the open machines. Surveillance is unlikely, but possible. Safety means preventing even the possible. He requires privacy, something he once accepted and expected as his due. He has not yet grown used to the crowds, to the jostling and the noise and the inconvenience. He may never grow used to it. In fact, he hopes and prays that he won't. Still, he has come to value the anonymity and protection afforded him by the presence of masses.

Finally he reaches the head of the line, enters the shielded booth. With practiced hands he manipulates the machines, codes in his message and its intended recipient. His heart is pounding. This may be it, he thinks. He inserts his credit chip, watches as the screen announces the charge and extracts it from his account SEND MESSAGE? it asks. YES, he selects. On wings of electrons it speeds off.

It is done. He has made his decision, issued his challenge; on Fontina he will make his stand. If it all works, if a lifetime of planning is finally about to bear fruit...no, there is no point in all this speculation. It will work or it won't. Anything can happen, most of it unpleasant. Considering what has already happened to him in his suddenly eventful life, he knows how dangerous it is to plan. More dangerous not to, though. Mustn't stay here very long.

He leaves the PMC, antennae alert to the suspicions of others, searching, always searching for the attention that shouldn't be there. It wouldn't do to get picked up now, of all times.

Time to go. He blends with the crowd, makes his way into the city.

 


	2. Part One

A ship makes no sound in space. Doesn't matter. The argument on the bridge of the **Liberator** is loud enough.

There is nothing surprising in the nature of the argument; it's the same old thing, in fact. Avon has an idea that he insists on carrying out. While telling the others as little as possible about it. Needless to say, they would rather not follow him into darkness. He is just as adamant. Hence the energetic dispute.

"Avon, there is no way in hell any of us are going to just fly along blindly with you," says Tarrant.

The computer tech stares past Tarrant, not even dignifying the pilot with one of his fierce glares. "Oh no?" he says in a flat voice. "What are you doing right now, then?" He doesn't even put any life into his question. It isn't a taunt or sneer. He really doesn't care.

Vila takes up the attack. "Look, just because you can give secret orders to Orac that we can't override doesn't mean it's right for you treat us like slaves. Why won't you tell us where you want to take us?" There's almost a whine in his voice that grates on Avon. He doesn't even answer.

"Come on, Avon," says Dayna. "We have a right to know what you're getting us into. You're going to need our help, aren't you? We have to be ready. So that means we need to know." Her hand is touching the butt of her gun. It is a gesture that does not escape Avon's attention.

"What's the matter, Avon?" This is Cally. As usual, she has waited till last, till after the others have had their say, knowing that if they fail she will still he able to get through to him. She hopes. Things have changed recently, but she still feels some of the old empathy for this cold, tantalizing man. Tendrils of thought she stretches out toward his mind, reaching, probing, gently, gently...they are repelled by a cold, black wall of mistrust and resentment and...

"What are you afraid of, Avon?" Tarrant again; strangely enough, voicing what Cally has only just felt. **No!** she thinks, moving swiftly towards the two men.

Not swiftly enough. Avon's hands are at the pilot's throat. He is shouting, growling, hissing, murder shining in his eyes. Cally and Dayna grab them, pull them apart. It takes all their strength, first to shift Avon, then to keep Tarrant from renewing the bout.

The pilot rubs his neck, casting a very nasty look at Avon. "I seem to have touched a nerve," he mutters ruefully.

"Yes," says Dayna. "I think you're afraid of something, Avon, which is why you won't tell us what you want to have us do. And we have a right to know." Hands on hips, fingers just brushing her gun, she stands glowering at the computer tech. From his station, ten feet away, Vila shudders. By now, **he'd** have talked, he thinks.

Cally takes Avon's hands, leads him to the rest area, sits him down. He has calmed himself a little, she sees; Tarrant's question stung him. **"Are** you afraid of something, Avon? Is that why you won't tell us anything?"

He pulls his hands out of hers. "I'm not afraid of anything," he says. "I never have been." There certainly is no look of fear on his face; instead, it is flushed with anger and defiance. But underneath, Cally can sense something, an uneasiness, a lack of confidence, a shimmering of worry about the future. She has never tried to read Avon this closely; he holds his emotions so tightly bound that she has found it in the past extremely wearying to share with him.

"Avon," she says softly, "we are your crewmates. You do have the power to carry us along with you, but that power is something you dare not abuse. You cannot run this ship for long without us, or in the face of our enmity. And there may come a time when you need us. Whatever your objective, is it worth alienating us to achieve?"

He breathes deeply several times, staring straight ahead, as if considering her words. She presses her momentary advantage. "Why not tell us? We trust your judgment," she says, praying that Tarrant won't object. The pilot starts to snort, breaks it off when Dayna elbows him in the ribs. Cally continues, "Where are we going, and why?"

Avon stands up, paces for a few seconds. His face shows conflict, a war between his usual secrecy and an indefinite amount of unwonted openness. The others are taken aback. Avon the Unsure. To none of them does it square with their conception of the computer tech, who has up to now never seemed subject to the ordinary doubts of humankind. He has always known what he wants: usually, what's best for Avon. But even that was something you could count on. But now? What do you do when Avon is **unreliably** unreliable?

Vila, more perceptive than the others, realizes that Avon is, for once, genuinely confused, uncertain. He approaches his friend as if to encourage him to go through with it, to trust them. "Avon," he says softly, "we aren't going to abandon you, you know. Whatever you're thinking, planning, if it's for the good of the ship, we'll help you do it. You don't have to keep it secret in order to get us to go along. We **are** all in this together."

Vila's words affect Avon as little of the previous squabbling has. Cally and Dayna also come close in support. Tarrant hangs back, but even he can see Avon's changed mood. It is apparent that he is about to tell them. Finally, even Tarrant joins the group. Avon won't look at them; instead, he stares off into infinity.

Finally, he starts to talk. His words are terse, his tone hostile, but he does tell them. What he says astonishing; nothing in the least like what they had expected. Even Cally is shocked. He goes on and on, repeating his points, muddling his words. A dam has broken; now that Avon has started talking, he can't seem to stop.

But he says almost nothing, actually. A few simple sentences, disjointed and unconnected. He is still giving orders. Talk but no trust. The mission is clear, his motives anything but. He has told them his plans, as they asked, but they seem to know less now than before.

Cally looks at Avon, trying to understand him, as always, but failing this time. "It makes no sense. What do you want? You sound obsessed, Avon. Obsessed with him," she says. "Why? Why him? Why now? After all this time?" Please, she thinks. Don't shut **me** out.

But nothing is returned. He has never been further from her. His eyes are shadows of limitless depth, they see nothing and reflect nothing. Cally can sense nothing, touch him nowhere.

The dark-haired man sits in the lounge well, arms crossed, staring down at some invisible beacon He sighs. "It hasn't been 'all this time' to me. It's as if it was yesterday. He has **always** been on my mind since we parted." Avon scowls. The grimace fits his face. It comes naturally to him.

"I don't understand," Vila complains. "Why should we go looking for him right now? And how do you know he's on this planet, what do they call it, Fontina, anyhow?"

Avon turns to contemplate the thief with something less than pleasure. "I'm not surprised you don't understand. In fact, I'd be a bit worried if you did."

The others on the flight deck follow this exchange with accustomed amusement. Vila versus Avon is a never-ending source of entertainment. But time is running short. Dayna speaks up first to forestall Tarrant.

"Can you stop demonstrating your superiority complex long enough to explain things to the rest of us?" she demands. "Even assuming we agree with your strategy -which we don't -what **does** make you think he's on Fontina?"

The taciturn dark man turns toward Orac. He glowers at the strange machine, as if resentful that he has to convince the rest of the crew. "Orac!" he commands. "Tell them what you told me."

Orac's peevish voice sounds even more supercilious than usual. *I have been monitoring Federation channels ever since we left Teal and Vandor. It seemed logical that Servalan would seek some new form of revenge against Avon for disrupting her plans.*

"We know all that," interjects Tarrant, leaning indolently against a bulkhead. "Tell us something new."

*I find it difficult to tell you anything at all,* Orac mutters. *Have Kerr Avon describe his strategy to you, then, since you will not let me tell it in my own way.*

Tarrant crosses over to Orac and removes its key. "That's that," he says with satisfaction. "Okay, Avon, what's this all about?"

Avon paces in front of the view screen, never looking at his crewmates. "Servalan lost face publicly when we ruined her plot against Teal and Vandor. She must think of something new," he says. "That means that we must do something new to counter her." He paces and paces. hands clasped behind his back. He might be talking to himself. "She is seeking **him** now, after all this time," he continues. "I suggest that it is in our interest to deprive her. I also suggest that he can help us overcome her once and for all. He can do things for us that even I can't. And..."

"And what?" asks Dayna.

Cally speaks up. "And if he does all that, Avon can leave us. Right, Avon?"

Avon's head jerks up suddenly. He should have known that Cally would guess. "I am not obligated to stay," he mutters. "Up to now I have chosen to. But I may choose to leave at any time. None of you has any hold on me. We're stuck with each other for now. But don't take me for granted." He paces some more. "Now, are we going after him or not?"

Cally and Tarrant look at each other, then include Dayna in their silent conversation. Vila looks on in concern, wondering what they're thinking. Finally, Cally turns to Avon. "All right. You may have a point. We need him. But why Fontina?"

Avon smiles. "Because he's there. And because Servalan recently sent a message to the Grand Consulate of Fontina to be on the lookout for him. Since she will is unlikely trust anyone else to claim him for her, it would be logical to assume that she herself will go to Fontina to take possession of him. Therefore, we must get there first. Therefore, this conversation is wasting time."

"Well," says Tarrant, "if we're going to beat her, we'd better start now." Cally and Dayna nod.

They take their places. Avon has Zen set a course for Fontina, now well outside the Federation's war-shrunken perimeter. **Liberator** heads off at Standard by eight. It will take approximately thirty hours to reach Fontina.

Silence reigns on the flight deck, a silence apparently dictated by the smoldering Avon. Also, he seems on edge. Tarrant smirks.

"Hard for you to accept victory, isn't it, Avon?" he gloats. "You don't like needing us. It reminds you that you're human." Avon won't look at him.

Cally speaks up to defend Avon. "Tarrant, you're being unfair. Avon is thinking of our safety, too, in seeking **him** out."

"Yes, but if it's to let him jump ship"

Avon interrupts both of them. "Thank you, Cally," he says, "but the last thing I need is for you to defend me. I have stated my reasons and you have agreed with them. Any further discussion is futile and stupid."

"So that's it, is it?" Tarrant looks belligerent. "Avon speaks and we're all to obey?"

Avon smiles. "As I said, futile and stupid."

All this is too much for Dayna. "Look," she says, "we're on our way. Either we go or we don't. In either case, Avon's right. Arguing now **is** stupid."

Vila still looks nervous. "Well, **I** don't want to sound stupid, Avon, but have you thought about how we're going to find **him** when we get there? Fontina's a pretty big planet, you know. And he doesn't want to be found, not even by us. Maybe especially not by us, after all that's happened."

Avon smiles again. "There are certain things that not even **he** will be able to resist. Things he will need to stay alive and on the run. Things that Fontina has in excess. He will be easy to find."

"Don't be so sure," says Tarrant. "A big port planet like that will have a lot of room to hide in. And nobody's going to help us."

"I won't need help," Avon states.

"Avon, that's unreasonable," says Dayna. "Have you ever been to Fontina? Where will you start?"

"In 'The Shade.' According to Orac, that's what the locals call Fontina's spacer zone. Where else can **he** go?"

"A spacer zone," smirks Tarrant "You, Avon? You'll be lunchmeat for the jugboys."

"Explain yourself, Tarrant. Some of us do not understand spacer slang," says Cally wearily.

"I mean that if someone like Avon goes into a spacer zone and starts trying to track down someone who doesn't want to be tracked down, all sorts of nasty types will assume that he's a cop. Nasty types in spacer zones don't like cops. They do nasty things to cops. Real nasty things."

"Like...like what?" asks Vila, his face pale.

"Never mind, Vila," says Cally.

"Tarrant, you're a fool," Avon says viciously. "Almost as big a fool as Vila. You can't frighten me with bedtime stories. You only scare yourself. I'm a survivor. Like **him**. I understand him better than any of you. Whatever he's doing, **I** will find him."

With that, he leaves the flight deck, strides off for places unknown. His cabin, which none of the others have ever seen. Not even Vila has been able to penetrate its mysterious bourn. There have been times when Cally wished, or hoped, or even believed that she might be invited within, but those times seem long gone now. Things have happened recently, things she doesn't fully understand, although she has her guesses. Avon wasn't always the merciless, adamantine icy force he has become since Star One. When she first met him he was wary, not always sure of himself. The betrayal that put him in prison shook him up badly, she is sure. But he seemed to overcome that. The recent betrayal by 'Anna Grant' must have killed whatever human empathy he had left.

In his cabin, Avon ruminates on such matters, deep within the recesses of his mind. He is driven by anger and by resentment and by impatience and by...by what? He hates his crew and he doesn't hate them. He needs them and yet he wants to be rid of them, free of them.

The cabin is a refuge, a dark dungeon where he can imprison his emotions and visit them in private. He spends little time here other than to sleep. He prefers the computer sections or the flight deck, especially when the others are off watch. He can almost not bear to look at them any more. But in here it is almost worse, for here he **must** be alone, whether he wants to or not He is tense. The confrontation with the others has upset him greatly, distressed him. He is damp with slowly drying sweat, filmy with its residue. The blood is rushing in his ears, his heart is racing, his mind ablaze with ferment and wildness. He has triumphed. **Liberator** will do what he says. He has again imposed his will on the rest. He has proved his superiority and his dominance. He feels smaller than ever.

He strips, showers, dresses. Lies down. Tries to clear his mind. To no avail. His own mind is the one aspect of his existence that he cannot command, cannot order to his satisfaction. His mind, that repository of genius, commands **him** , makes him dance to **its** bidding. Now it wants him awake, on edge, unable to relax, unable to face the future, the future that he has willed, with peace. Avon can never know peace. Especially not now.

For, within his mind where no one can see it, not even himself, Avon is afraid, as afraid as any man has ever been. Afraid of death. Afraid of failure. Afraid, above all, of responsibility.

He will get them all killed, he knows it. The black specter of death has visited him in his dreams again and again, and always with a mocking visage and a grim message: You will kill, Avon. You will kill those you love. Their corpses will be your only companions, and you will cart them around with you for an eternity. Skulls with empty eyes will stare at you forever, and only you will remember what their faces once looked like.

And he has one fear that's even worse. That they will someday, one day, leave him.

He shudders. Beads of sweat roll down his face onto his pillow. The pain becomes unendurable. Suddenly, he sits bolt upright and screams...

 


	3. Part Two

The universe will not miss Servalan when she is gone. She has ruled with too iron a fist, shattered too many lives and dreams, to evoke any pity now that her reign is suddenly shaky. She knows all this, and yet cannot help feeling that it is unfair that she, **she** of all beings, Supreme Commander and now President Servalan, should face such a challenge.

After all, what has she really done, other than to defend the established order, to keep things going, to maintain the way things were and should be? Her critics know **nothing** of the dangers she has faced, the threats she has overcome, the enemies she has put down. It is only thanks to her that they are even around to badger her with their petty, puling complaints. For a second, the ingratitude of it all grips her and she begins to burn in a second, she may actually erupt in fury. Her innate dignity and sense of control assert themselves, though, and she avoids the embarrassment. Suddenly, she recalls where she is and what she should be paying attention to.

"What were you saying, Councillor Chritas?" she asks coyly, as if awakened from a reverie" which, in fact, she has been. She smiles benignly on the younger man, a smile that does not quite conceal her teeth.

It is the Chamber of the High Council of the Federation on Earth. Servalan and Chritas sit at opposite ends of a long table, girding two rows of lesser, and therefore inconsequential, Councillors. Whose heads, as if observing a tennis match, swing toward Servalan's opponent. Chritas, younger than Servalan, sighs. He recognizes, of course, her rhetorical trick, but also knows that he has her on the defensive.

He is a handsome man, slim, tall, well proportioned. Pleasant to look at, without seeming unimportant or too pretty to be smart. He is plenty smart, of course, or he'd never have gotten where he is. And he is more than smart, too, or he'd never have stayed there. But there is always higher to climb, always more power to gamer. Always more opponents to best. And they only get more dangerous and treacherous the higher you ascend.

Chritas begins, carefully. Diminished as Servalan may be, she is still tremendously formidable, fantastically dangerous. "I said, Madame President, that, with all due respect, I do not see how your policy of placating the Lost Worlds is aiding our rebuilding of the Federation. Rather, it is actually encouraging them to hold on to their ridiculous dreams of permanent independence. Only force can refederate the galaxy. And I am sure that I speak for many on the Council when I say that." Chritas smiles, with no more humor than Servalan did. His smile grows as he sees some of the intervening heads nodding, slightly but clearly.

With renewed confidence, Chritas rises. He starts to pace, turns his back on the table, strides away a few yards, then turns and faces the Council. "Madame President, we all recognize, no one more than I, your services to the Federation during and after the Andromedan War. Only you could have brought the Fleet through that cataclysm, only you could have held the Federation together after that terrible period. Your call to the Council to refederate the Federation was a stirring battle cry, giving us purpose when we needed it." He pauses for breath. His face grows harder.

"But time passes, Madame President. What is past may be valued, but it must also **be** past. I hope I will not be accused of disloyalty or of ingratitude when I ask you, plainly but respectfully, how your recent actions have contributed either to restoring the Federation to its rightful place as the shaper of humanity's destiny **or** to dealing with the pitiful but dangerous remnants of the unrest that preceded the Andromedan invasion." Another pause. He lets his question sink in. Servalan's face is frozen, and not in a beatific or benevolent pose.

His voice loses its lulling softness. "What benefit came from your presence during the Teal-Vandor 'war'?" he barks, sounding eerily like Servalan's first drill sergeant. "How did that major embarrassment contribute to our strategies, our goals? Did provoking the Pyroans into committing mass suicide bring us any gain? Is there any decrease in rebel outrages? Has the **Liberator** and its cargo of terrorists been captured?" He pauses for breath.

"Above all, where are we going?" he resumes. "What plans do you have? What proposals? Other than that you should remain President because you should remain President? Why should that persuade us? Why should the Federation listen?"

Chritas again strides away from the table, his back to all. "You have held your post for some time now, a very long time, in fact. Any lengthy tenure can grow stale. Perhaps you grow tired. Perhaps you wish to lay down the crushing burdens of your office. It would surprise none of us if you did indeed feel that way. If that is the case, I know I for one will be honored to help lighten your load." The false sincerity of his words amazes even her. She must force herself to listen.

Chritas pivots, facing the table, hands folded against his chest. "It goes without saying that you will step down with the thanks of not only this Council but of the entire Federation. And even, perhaps, from beyond. I hope that you will not let your tremendous sense of duty force you to prolong your stay in power against your own desires or the needs of your people." He sits, his face stony. There is a scattering of applause. Not much, just enough.

There it is, she thinks. A way out if she wants it. And why not? She has blundered badly in recent months. The Teal-Vandor catastrophe was only the latest misjudgment on her part. It is her obsession with Avon, with the **Liberator** , that has pushed her. Until she can rule him, command his ship, she cannot rest.

But it is that obsession, she realizes, that has brought her to this ugly pass. To where Chritas, the merest boy when she first took over Space Command, can challenge her - politely, but nevertheless a deadly challenge. Can he muster the votes on the Council to force her to step down? Dare she risk a direct vote? In times past she has known that her loyal forces will never let her be deposed. But she has been too long absent from Space Headquarters the last few months, and the new trainees are distant from her. And here at Federation Central she is not as secure.

Suddenly Servalan feels a tremor of something unfamiliar. It resonates in her memory with a sharp throb. It feels like...it feels like the flush of heat she felt when that miserable tramp, Dayna Mellanby, forced a gun against her throat in the referees' room at the Teal-Vandor Convention.

Servalan realizes she is afraid. Chritas is young, but he is shrewd and almost as ruthless as she is. He has much support on the Council and in the bureaucracy. And he wants her job as strongly as she once wanted it. A formidable enemy.

Afraid. The word has been buried, expunged. Years have gone by without the word or the emotion impinging on her consciousness. She was one of the most highly decorated troopers in Federation Space Command history. She was so brave that the psychotechs thought she might be dangerously unstable. She has seen their evaluations: "Subject shows lack of usual battlefield caution. Extremely reckless. Dedication profile is almost off the scale. Exceptional leader of short-term assaults, but too careless of force survival to command in longer duration situations. Recommend against promotion to higher positions of authority. Lack of sufficient self-preservation motivation may be symptomatic of a greater underlying psychological problem that could surface during excessive stress."

Insufficient self-preservation. Hah! she thinks. How little they really knew. Whatever her weaknesses as a trooper, she has been the world champion of self-preservation as a commander and ruler. Her dedication has always been total and absolute. She has been willing to sacrifice anything and everything to carry out her orders or to fulfil her own ambitions, ambitions she has always identified with the needs of the Federation.

She knows what the psychologists said. One of her first acts as Supreme Commander was to deal with them. She hopes they have found interesting subjects to profile on Cygnus Alpha.

Nevertheless, she has paid attention to what they said. What was a strength as a trooper **could** be a weakness as a commander. She quickly realized that physical bravery as a trooper was a great way to get recognized and decorated. And a great way to get dead. She wised up and got rid of that weakness. She hasn't risked her life in years. Not willingly, anyway. The one or two times it has happened recently...she thinks of one such situation, when **he** almost cost her her life...

She feels that hot flush again. It angers her, almost infuriates her, in fact. Her life is the most important thing in the cosmos, and the idea that someone inferior, as all are, would dare threaten it, provokes outrage in her. A threat to her political power and position is also a source of indignation. She resents the weakness that has brought her to this, the mistakes she has made that have given her enemies an opportunity to outflank her. All this flashes through her mind in a second.

But Chritas has his weaknesses, too. He has little sense of strategy, and can be out-thought and out¬fought if only she can get away from here, get out of the Council Chamber with her power intact. She has a plan, after all. She has known of Chritas's hopes to replace her. She hasn't come in here unprepared, unarmed.

Rising, she stares regally at every face in the Chamber. Slowly she begins to speak. "I thank Councillor Chritas for his concern. I appreciate it greatly and accept it in the spirit in which it was given." She smiles at him. A smile that can make grown men quake. It does no less to Chritas.

"He speaks of my sense of duty. Duty. The most important word in my vocabulary. My duty to the Federation, that concept that gives meaning to all our lives. The Federation means more to me than any of you can possibly know. It is and has been for many years my entire life. My duty to the Federation has consumed me, governed me, transformed me. I could no more neglect my duty to the Federation than I could willingly stop breathing." A pause for effect.

Just long enough. She goes on, "That duty is something I cannot pass off to anyone else. Not while there is work still to complete. As much as I may wish to turn over the Presidency of the Council to someone younger, someone stronger and fresher, I cannot allow myself that luxury. I became President during a terrible and desperate war. After that war, I dedicated myself to restoring the Federation to its position of power and greatness. That task is not yet complete. Until it is, I must do my duty as I see it, and that is to sacrifice myself by continuing to guide the affairs of state, with, of course, the approval and guidance of the Council."

She pauses, pleased with her response. It has just that touch of nobility that will make it difficult for anyone to vote her out just now. Chritas recognizes it, too. He is looking around the table for support, but no one will meet his gaze. Servalan smiles. She is about to crush him with some veiled putdown when her hidden earpiece buzzes. Concealing her annoyance, she listens to the voice in her ear.

 **"He's** been found," it says. "On the planet Fontina, as predicted. Your agents are in place there. A ship is being prepared now and will be ready to leave within the hour." Servalan takes a big breath. She is about to gamble her career on a very risky chance. But if she can find **him** , it will make the rest of it so much easier...

"Members of the Council, I must declare this meeting adjourned. I have just been informed that a dangerous situation is threatening our control of a distant sector. I must return to Space Command to take charge of our response. I will be in the War Room, where, of course, I will be unreachable. We will reconvene here when the emergency is over. I thank you for you presence today. The guards will escort you out."

At least she can still count on her personal Security retinue. Fifteen tall, well-armed praetorians enter the Chamber. Without a backward look, Servalan stalks out, leaving a flustered Chritas behind. She has no time for him, or for fear, anymore. She is the decisive, imperious Servalan of old, now. She will win, this time. She knows it.

 


	4. Part Three

The trip in from the spaceport takes him over an hour.

The ride itself is pleasant enough, the railcar as clean as one could expect or hope for. It starts as an elevated, providing him with an interesting, if unexceptional, look at the outskirts of D'm'nk.

The suburbs are dull, anonymous, indistinguishable. People actually live here, he marvels. He grew up in the Domes, back on Earth. The idea of living Outside is something he cannot get used to, even though he has seen similar habitations on most of the planets he's visited during his flight.

Finally, though, the train dips into a tunnel for the actual entry into D'm'nk. Soft lights flash on inside his car, but he is too keyed up to read; he has nothing to read with him, anyhow. The trip passes in softly whooshing comfort. He tries to enjoy the tranquility. He knows that it is the last he will experience for a long time.

The train pulls into Central Station. He disembarks along with thousands of other travelers from dozens of different trains. He quickly loses himself once more in the milling crowd. He knows where he has to go, and it isn't a place one asks directions for.

At a newsstand, he purchases a guidebook. It has a pull-out map, which he scans. As he suspects, there is no listing for 'The Shade.' Hardly a surprise. What Chamber of Commerce or Tourism Bureau would advertise such a district? But inside the book, there is a warning to avoid the area, and it does mention where it is. Typical hypocrisy, he thinks, chuckling a little. They tell you to stay away, and then they tell you where to find it.

There is a subway leading into The Shade. Only two stations stop within its nebulous borders. Not surprisingly, it is back the way he came in, closer to the spaceport. He could have gotten off earlier and found himself where he wanted to be. Still, coming into the center of the city has given him a chance to plan his next move.

Now that he knows where The Shade is, he returns his attention to the map and locates his target. It is surrounded by other only slightly less foul sections of the city. Equally poor and blighted, but unredeemed by The Shade's reputation for sin and excitement. Only street crime unites D'm'nk's low-class neighborhoods.

On the subway he notices that he will fit in with The Shade's denizens and visitors, at least at first. He is dressed as a spacer, like many of the other riders. It has taken him long enough to acquire the clothing and the confidence to wear it properly. The moment he opens his mouth he will set himself apart, he knows, but at least he can postpone the moment of discovery until then.

He gets out at the first stop and ascends to street level. It is a dull, gloomy day, unlivened by any great amount of sunlight that he can discover. What a contrast to the brightness at the spaceport. Not that Fontina gets much light from its rather small sun. It is a bit further out from the primary than is typical for a life-supporting planet, which makes it a cold, dim place. Elsewhere in D'm'nk, he presumes, artificial lighting makes up for the insufficient natural stuff, but The Shade doesn't seem to rate such assistance. The towering grey buildings diminish even the minimal illumination that there is.

He begins to explore. In his travels, he has come to enjoy the sheer freedom of being on his own, not having any duties or responsibilities. No one to care for, to worry about, to think for. Although he knows he must keep on his guard, he can be what he never was before. One of the crowd, on a planet where there aren't suppressants in the air, where there isn't a Dome overhead, where there aren't Federation Security stooges at every junction. Where there is no cause for him to command, other than staying alive. That may not last much longer.

The Shade is typical of many portplanets' darksides - sprawling, dirty, dingy, easy to get lost in. He has seen many such helltowns during his flight this is no better or worse than the others. It's a place one uses, like a public sanitary.

He prowls its streets, stopping at bars, flophouses, zapnodes, looking for...for what? How do you articulate, even to yourself, what combination of signs portends a safe contact, differentiated from someone who will sell you to the police or, worse, to the local mafia for a few credits or a faceful of drugs? He has become experienced in the ways of the fugitive, but he still isn't perfect. He hopes this all will be finished before he is.

The Shade is a touch smaller than similar districts elsewhere, he surmises, but no less horrific. It smells, there's hardly any light even at midday, and the streets are filthy. On Fontina, he's gathered, public services go to those who bribe the most, and this area can hardly hope to compete with richer habitats. He notices that his clothes are already smudged and begrimed. Oh well, he thinks. I wasn't going to be invited to the President's annual ball anyway.

He sighs. A pang of frustration seizes him. Nothing has gone right for him for a long time. Ever since...escaping...he has been on the run, hoping to work his way back, always fearful that his past will catch up with him. He is not a popular person in influential quarters; if she should catch him, she will take her revenge in an unpleasant way, of that he is sure. Unless...but there's no profit in dwelling on what are as of yet only possibilities.

He moves on, stopping only briefly, ever so briefly, and putting a lot of distance between each contact made. Even though he is reasonably safe for the moment, he knows that no planet is a true haven for him. Sooner or later he will be traced to Fontina. He must be ready before that happens.

D'm'nk should be a good place to find fake identification, a person to smuggle him out, a ship to take him elsewhere. If needed. As it may be. Although not if he can help it...

Still, precautions are necessary, despite his plans. Leave nothing to chance, or even to wish; he learned that lesson long ago. He is tired of running, but he is not tired of living. Choice was taken from him a long time ago; he has given up complaining about the inequity. Enjoying even a few short moments of peace, of pleasure, is enough. He had a good meal two days ago; a satisfying tryst the week before. If he can find a decent place to sleep tonight, he will be content. He hopes only that he won't be rushed in making his plans.

So far he is finding D'm'nk an uncongenial place. He has almost been mugged twice; fortunately, his practical mind always leads him to the right response to anything. In this case, he has run like hell. Undignified, but effective. And he has learned something, too - stay out of certain alleyways.

Never before has he encountered such difficulties in finding illicit assistance. He has been to more than a dozen bars, his usual source of underground allies. And D'm'nk certainly should have more than enough to provide. But either the planet's reputation is undeserved, or the Shade is even leerier of outsiders than such places usually are. Or he just hasn't hit the right bars yet. Probably the latter.

Onward he searches, finding a place to stay later in one bar, a change of clothing in another. Almost he accepts a paylady's offer of company, but resists at the last minute. This one is good looking, even attractive, but he needs all his wits now. Business first, pleasure later. And business to him means avoiding recapture.

He knows that deep inside his mind all this is just chaff, just camouflage. He knows that he actually has a plan, something he's been working on for quite a long time indeed. If it works - if, despite all its uncertainties and even improbabilities, it actually comes off - than he'll be free, or as close to free as he is ever going to approach in his odd life. If. If certain extremely unlikely events are predicted correctly and if certain other unfathomable people behave as forecast and if nothing unconsidered should happen to intervene...one can go mad trying to keep track of all the factors.

Besides, dwelling on the plan will dull his edge, that edge he must maintain to stay free long enough for the plan to succeed. And to stay free, he must prepare to depart Fontina as soon as possible. So on he marches, searching for underground allies, or at least semineutral mercenaries who will sell him their aid.

Still, remembering that he has a strategy, that he is not just a miserable fugitive, helps keep him sane. Hope is necessary even to the desperate. Besides, the plan may be about to come off. And if it is going to happen on Fontina, he wants to be as ready as possible.


	5. Part Four

**Liberator** is an unhappy, nervous ship. Fontina lies thirty hours from their previous position. A long voyage on a sullen ship...the trip passes in almost total silence. Avon is on the flight deck again, silent as the grave. He seems resentful that he has prevailed over his crewmates. Resentful that he has needed to convince them. Resentful that he needs to find **him**. His silence infects the rest of the crew; even Vila finds it difficult to speak up.

Tarrant and Dayna whisper to each other. Cally keeps trying to talk to Avon, but he is totally unreachable. Vila contents himself with surreptitious sips from a small drinktube. Finally, as they near the planet, he can't restrain himself.

"Have you decided who's going down there?" he asks.

"Why?" asks Avon. "Are you volunteering?" Tarrant and Dayna snicker. "Don't worry, I need you up here keep the ship ready to leave at any moment. I shall take Tarrant and Dayna with me to hunt for him, and Cally to keep a safe location for us to bring him when we find him. Do you think you can stay sober with only Orac for company?"

"Look, make fun of me if you want," Vila sputters, "but I think you're taking this too easy. Tarrant's right. I've been reading up on Fontina, and it's not a nice place. It's probably got more real nasties than any two other planets around. If **he** doesn't want to be found, he'll be able to find a lot of people who'll be glad to help him stay lost. If they don't kill him first."

"All the more reason for us to go down there and find him," Tarrant remarks. "Besides, remember that Servalan is also after him. We can't leave him to her. We've got to get to him first. Don't worry, Vila, we'll be the ones in danger. You'll be safe up here."

*We are now in orbit around Fontina,* Zen announces. "Teleport range has been attained.* Avon breathes deeply. He stares straight ahead.

Cally goes up to him, touches him on the shoulder. "Well, we're here. What now?" When Avon doesn't respond, she repeats the question. He only looks more morose.

Suddenly, Orac's voice snipes at them. *I am picking up a coded signal from Federation Central. Servalan's ship has launched. She is now en route for Fontina. She will be here in about twenty hours.*

That rouses Avon. "Well," he snaps, "what are you waiting for?" He moves quickly off the flight deck.

The others jump into action. With Vila at the controls, they teleport down into D'm'nk, Fontina's main city. Alone on the ship, the thief sighs. Then he turns to Orac. "Operate the teleport, will you, Orac? I'm nervous - and that makes me thirsty!" he grins, then leaves the room in search of refreshment.

D'm'nk is large and anonymous. Its principal motifs are grey and bulk: large grey buildings blocking out the sun, people rushing about in dull clothing especially designed to protect them from the planet's frequent rains and windstorms, enormous grey vehicles transporting containers from the docks to the spaceport.

Fontina exports raw materials to many other planets; most of its people are either extractors or work for the shipping companies. There are spacers and spacer-bars everywhere, along with hookers, drug pushers, moneychangers, moneylenders, bookmakers, musclemen, flophouse proprietors, thieves, pickpockets, muggers, entertainers, and all the other habitus of a trading planet. Plenty of space for anyone to disappear into.

D'm'nk's worst neighborhood is called The Shade. Compressed among blocks of warehouses, computer banks, repair shops, power plants, and factories, its bars, brothels, bookies, sleeplightlies, gambling dens, agents' offices, knick-knack shops, and other establishments tend to fade into the all- pervading greyness, the perpetual twilight. If you don't know where you were going, you'll never find it in The Shade. And if you get lost, there are plenty of natives eager to make you regret it.

Avon leads his three followers into a dingy alleyway. "If **he's** in this city, we will find him around here," he announces. "He'll need false papers and a place to hide that even the police would be reluctant to comb. This planet may not be in the Federation any longer, but Servalan can put a great deal of pressure on its rulers for something she really wants--and she really wants **him**."

He squints out at the lonely street, his eyes still not adjusted to the dimness. He pulls out three small slimsies. "This is the most recent photo," he says, handing one to each. "You know what he looks like, Cally, but remember, neither of them has ever seen him."

"He'll probably have changed his looks, anyhow," Dayna says. "Still, this is something to start with."

"How shall we do this?" Tarrant asks. "Stay together or split up?"

Avon looks disdainfully at him. "As I said on the ship, Cally will find us a safehouse, in case we have to stay here for a while. It should have a ground-floor entrance. You'd better get started." She nods and goes off. He stares in her direction long after she has vanished. Then he turns back to the others. "We'll meet back here in four hours. Tarrant, you and Dayna can stay together. I prefer to be on my own."

Dayna looks startled. "Alone? On this planet? Avon, this is hardly a place to be without backup."

"What **are** you afraid of, Avon?" Tarrant asks. "Admitting you need help isn't a sign of weakness. Not even one of affection." He grins nastily.

Avon stares them both down. "I'm not afraid of anything, Tarrant. Don't ever say anything like that to me again." He is practically shouting...at least, for Avon. Tarrant can only stare, dumbfounded at Avon's intensity and hostility.

"Avon," he stammers, "it's not a crime to be afraid. In circumstances like this, it's only intelligent. It's also intelligent to admit you need someone. Don't worry, we won't tell anyone."

Avon grabs him by his tunic. "Shut up!" he hisses. I don't need **you**. And I don't need help. I never have, and I never will. You just be ready to leave when I find him." He steps out into the street suddenly, and vanishes.

Tarrant gasps, shakes his head. "One of these days, Avon..." he murmurs. "You'd better not try us too hard." He and Dayna plunge into the gloom.

 


	6. Part Five

Light and shadow are twins, enemy sides of the same coin. Federation Central is full of light and full of shadow. It is often darkest just where it is brightest.

Still rankled by his failure before the Council, Councillor Chritas is in his office, conferring with his aides and allies. He is a brave man and a persistent one; Servalan has squirmed out of his trap this time, but that only makes him more determined than ever to triumph over her. He is supremely confident, almost arrogant in his belief that he is destined to replace her, to see her not just defeated but also humiliated, destroyed personally as well as politically. He may even be clever enough to pull it off.

"Sir." It is Baylin, his staff psychostrategist. An obsequious man, oddly muted for one of his profession. Useful. Completely untrustworthy, of course - all puppeteers are treacherous as thirsty Mutoids - but brilliant. Chritas would no more rely on him than he would turn his back on Servalan, but the fact that he knows this shields him. Usually.

"What?" he asks, knowing better than to chide the stringmaster for his insolence in interrupting him.

"Servalan received no message from the War Room. There has been no communication from there to anyone since yesterday except for routine inter-machine transfers."

Chritas considers this. He is only a little surprised, since he has spies at Space Command Headquarters, and they have told him nothing about any emergency requiring the Supreme Commander's presence. Still, it is always nice to have one's suspicions confirmed. Why should it surprise him that Servalan lied? Isn't that her very nature? She herself probably can't even tell any longer when she's lying.

"To be expected. That - woman - " he forces the word out through clenched teeth, "lies like you or I breathe. But always for a reason. So. Where did the message come from, and where is she really headed for? Trager, what have you found out?"

He is addressing a young, spindly person of barely determinate gender seated at a large and sophisticated cyberconsole. The youth, who has a prominent nose and long black hair, has plugged himself into the deck and is absorbing data directly into his brain. A form of sensory perception that few can handle at all, let alone with any proficiency. But he is, after all, a member of the famous Trager Family of computer geniuses. He has not escaped any of the family genius - or neurosis.

Trager is completely captivated by his assignment, and doesn't even hear Chritas's question. Concealing his irritation and impatience with difficulty, the powerful politician repeats himself.

"Oh," Trager says, as if suddenly realizing that he is not alone in the chamber. "Well, I think I've tracked down what ship she's on. A Panther Class Cruiser docked at the Security Section of Spaceport Central about three hours ago. It has a ship's complement of Special Security Guards, all seconded from duty at Space Command. No flight data filed. Took off right after the President left the Council Chamber. Last recorded position, exiting the Solar System at Time Distort Fourteen."

"Whew!" says an older man. Davril Simes, Chritas's most trusted advisor. "She's sure in a hurry!"'

Chritas frowns and nods. "Yes, understandably. She has to get there before **he** can reach our...associate. That is what she's after, isn't it, Baylin? I'm relying on your assessment. And you'd better be right. I'm not going to let that bitch take me by surprise again. This time I want to destroy her for good!"

The puppeteer blinks. Chritas's ruthlessness appalls him, even though the man pays him very well. And keeps him away from even crueler Federation players. He has never been able to function out in the "real" world. He is primarily an academic, with all the keenness of intellect and atrophy of manhood that that implies. Whatever else he may be is not for Chritas to know. Not yet.

"Well, sir," he begins, "you remember what I told you last week, about an odd pattern I discovered in the President's requests from the Bureau of Information? By the way, you must reward Secretary Vintez for honoring us with his confidences. Add that to the message we received two days ago from the target. Since then, I have had a strategy computer analyzing her actions. It's clear what she's up to. It is a risky strategy for her, but one with great potential if it succeeds. In any case, she has no choice. She **must** pursue it to undercut us."

"How sure are you?" Simes asks anxiously.

"Probability at least point six that my analysis of her actions is correct. Probability around point eight that she will undertake the mission herself so as to control all the factors involved. Probability of success at this point impossible to calculate, although I would hazard a guess that she stands a pretty good chance of finding him and bringing him back. I realize that 'pretty good guess' is unscientific. I apologize."

"Don't," says Chritas with a grim, thin smile. "Your guesses are as good as most people's certainties. But **he** wants to surrender to us?"

"That's if we trust him," Simes says grumpily.

Baylin is offended. "You've never questioned my accuracy before."

Simes shakes his head. "You've never based a major strategy on info from a crimo before."

Chritas chuckles. "Hardly an ordinary crimo, Simes," he says.

"Yeah?" counters the suspicious ex-soldier. "That whole planet is nothing but a bunch of crimos. I can't figure it out."

"It **is** a mess," says Trager. The computer tech's thin, thin face is screwed in a nasty frown. He doesn't appear to like what he sees. "Fontina is a Mutoid's nest of conspiracy. We've tentatively identified several officials as belonging to Servalan's camp. The worst sort of corrupt politicians. We ourselves have had only occasional contacts with the planet's government, mainly because the Councillor has not been in office long enough to build a support network on Fontina."

"So who's **our** source?" Simes asks.

This time it is Baylin who speaks. "He - or she - is not in the government as such, although it is occasionally hard to tell who actually rules there. Instead, we have once or twice relied upon an individual known to us only as 'The Weasel' - gender unknown - for certain services. This person is a recent arrival on the illegal scene on Fontina. The Weasel is reputed to be a powerful figure in organized crime with a large organization and many useful connections in the planet's transportation, communications, and security establishments. The Weasel has a reputation for getting the job done. You remember that kidnaped courier with special diplomatic codes?" Chritas nods. "It was 'The Weasel' who rescued him and eliminated the kidnapers."

"In under twenty-four hours," adds Trager, reading from his screen.

"A very resourceful figure," Chritas says.

"Can we contact this 'Weasel' quickly?" Simes asks.

"We can try," Trager replies.

"There's a way. I've got an access code on Fontina's primitive and obsolete datanet. Leave it to me," Baylin says quickly, before any of the others can speak. Simes nods. Let Baylin handle it, it's his job to advise Chritas on strategy and then to implement the Councillor's will. Baylin doesn't care what he does. It is all a game to him, only with real life as the counters. With a grin on his face, he explains his plan to his superiors.

During his recitation, Chritas nods, a look of intentness on his face. The viciousness of Baylin's strategy bothers him not at all. Without even looking at Trager, he gives orders. "Fine. Perfect. Just one thing. What's the name of that crimo? Vedik? I want him taken care of, along with Ms. Amazon Bitch Supreme Commander. I figure 'The Weasel' will be only too happy to eliminate a rival. See to it."

Then, as if he hasn't just given orders that two people be killed, Chritas stands and leaves his private chamber. Outside, in his reception area, two Senators are waiting for him. With an expansive smile and a ready handshake, Chritas greets them, his comrades and allies. His followers. "My good friends," he intones, "how nice to see you. What news from the Senate floor?" he asks, although his secret listening device has already conveyed to him everything that happened in the recent secret session.

 


	7. Part Six

Cities all look the same from the inside. Dull, anonymous, and indifferent, their lack of internal originality might almost be someone's perverse joke, except that living in them isn't funny to the inhabitants. Or to the visitors.

Cally is no city slicker. Auron is one of the few planets that ever had nice urban areas. The Shade depresses her, as has most of human society that she's seen. It isn't the crime that bothers her as much as the misery, desperation, and hopelessness the criminals prey on. The crewmembers frantically seeking pleasure the way a drowning man seeks air. The vicious gangs of young toughs looking for unfortunates to mug. The grasping petty dealers, fences, sexshooters, thieves, drunks, druggies - all are unknown on Auron, where antisocial behavior had been bred out genetically. The few throwbacks - who mostly are guilty only of unauthorized mental eavesdropping - tend to leave the planet.

She's had little luck searching for a safehouse. The Shade is mostly warehouses and computer banks. There are plenty of bars and flophouses, but since the police are in and out of them shaking down the owners and patrons, Cally doesn't feel any of them would be particularly secure as a base for an undercover operation. Avon told her to find a place off a main street, but close by. The problem is that such streets are even less safe to walk down than the major thoroughfares, even for someone with a Liberator gun. Cally has already had to draw hers once to threaten off two streetlethals who tried to grab her bracelet.

And it is impossible to get information from the locals. Any requests are met either by a leering grin and an offer of sex or drugs, or by an uncomprehending stare, or by a snarl. The paranoia shakes her. What is it with humans, she wonders in despair, that they go out of their way not to trust others, not to trust anyone? It gives Cally a grim feeling, almost a portent of some awful future. She shudders and pushes it out of her mind, pushes on. Avon is counting on her.

The mental noise is the worst she's ever felt. Aurons find it hard to believe that anyone is truly bad, at least not in the soul. Cally hasn't been in the Shade ten minutes before she has begun to question this fundamental tenet of her culture. Some of the people she's encountered...well, they might induce even Auron to institute the death penalty.

Avon warned them before they teleported down. He also had Orac give them a special briefing on the planet and its peculiar politics. Following the Federation's retreat dining and after the Andromedan War, Fontina reverted to a strange form of industrial criminal feudalism. Supposedly freely elected officials vie with organized crime bosses for control of Fontina's industries, markets, and legislation. The police war with the private armies of the crimo lords. Ordinary citizens try to stay out of their way. The lucky get killed in the crossfire. The unlucky end up in the mines.

In particular, Orac goes on to explain, Vedik, the leading Consul, is currently engaged in an especially brutal fight with a crime boss known only as 'The Weasel' over D'm'nk's vast empire of vice and corruption. 'The Weasel' is a recent entry to the battle, but has become very powerful in a remarkably short time. Orac tells them that each has enlisted the support of a major figure in the Federation - Servalan is on Vedik's side and Chritas is backing the 'Weasel.' Hoping, no doubt, according to Orac, that the two Fontinans will wipe out each other, enabling the winner of their own conflict to take over the planet. Avon grins evilly during Orac's disquisition.

Nasty, nastier, nastiest. Two scorpions fighting, each trying to sting the other to death. While being egged on and watched by two piranhas. While the planet falls to pieces and its population suffers. In the mines, in the oppressive factories, and in squalid slums like this one. Cally's mood grows bleaker and blacker by the minute.

Oh, this is getting her nowhere, all these depressing thoughts, she chides herself. She is a person of action, a fighter. Avon is counting on her, after all. Nothing else could get her to do this. She turns a corner and walks toward a large, grey building.

Avon. Counting on her. The thought startles her a little. She only wishes he **would** count on her, confide in her instead of taking her for granted. True, there have been some events, passages at arms, other...more intimate moments, that should have bred trust between them. She is happy and proud to be his ally, his one staunch supporter amongst the crew. As Blake had been. She knows that Avon misses Blake, feels that he is unfit for command. That is, after all, the underlying cause of this mission. Baulking Servalan is important, true, but liberating Avon is crucial.

Still, trusting someone like Avon is guaranteed to frustrate anyone, even a saint, which Cally certainly is not, although Avon has not yet tried to find that out. Another source of frustration, she feels more than thinks. Still, time is on her side. Especially if she can help him carry out this mission. She's the only one who understands it and believes in it. Tarrant and Dayna are excellent fighters, but they have no sense of strategy at all. And Vila...well, he's more than he seems to be, but on the whole, he is content to go follow the others and do as he's told.

Oops, her mind has wandered again. Not a good idea, here in the Shade. She has been on the ship too long, that's obvious; it has dulled her guerilla's reflexes, her survival skills. Of course, **Liberator** has given her close and valuable allies, and a vastly increased scope for her freedom fighting. Along with an increased sense of just how truly evil the Federation is. For a brief second, she thinks of Zelda...but enough of that. She must remain in the present if she is not to share her sister's fate. Companions for your death, my dear sister, she promises. Starting with Servalan, for choice.

This building looks promising. From a doorway across the street, she sees scruffy men entering and leaving, holding up their coats against their necks and constantly patting their pockets. Either a drug-drop or a bookmaker's, she thinks. During a lull, she darts across the street into an alley alongside the building. Quickly charting its course, she discovers a rear entrance and goes in.

It is dark and dusty inside, almost too dim to see clearly. The narrow hallway is blocked, cluttered with furniture and derelict computers. Perhaps this had been an office once, before the squatters moved in. From somewhere in the front she can hear the rumble of voices. It occurs to her that perhaps only the front of the building is in use. There may be some vacant rooms back here, behind the clutter.

A quick search reveals a broken door leading to a small, stuffy chamber. Cally risks a light, flashing her small torch briefly. It seems to be part of a small flat, with boarded up windows. The walls are bare and the furniture mean and paltry. A low, unsprung couch, a pair of wooden chairs, a rickety table. An open doorway leads to a tiny kitchen and sanitary. Not a salubrious refuge, but anonymous and accessible. Also isolated. Perfect, especially as they aren't likely to need it for long.

Cally flops down on the couch, alarmed as it sags beneath her, relieved as it struggles and finally holds her weight. Her voice low, almost in a whisper, she calls the ship, gives Vila her location for him to pass on to the others. She waits.

D'm'nk means 'City of Wanderers' in some ancient tongue. Appropriate, Tarrant thinks. He wonders just how Avon expects to find their prey in this maze. Granted, Avon knows what the man looks like. But The Shade is no place for a hunt. It makes the bad sections of Earth, familiar to Tarrant from childhood videoventures, seem like a luxury resort. Dayna and he have had to assume the attitudes of 'slammers,' enforcers for the rich and powerful moguls of Fontina, an attitude Tarrant finds enjoyable projecting.

He's had to turn down several offers to buy Dayna from him. Watching her pound to jelly one such would-be purchaser has been the highlight of his afternoon. Just about the only highlight... Otherwise, it's been nothing but pounding the pavement, flashing money, and practicing his most menacing look. It's cold and wet, too, he thinks: if I'd wanted this, I'd have joined the Fed Marines instead of becoming a pilot. Avon, you'd better have a good reason to think this guy is here! I've taken just about all I'm going to from you. He shivers in his light, if flashy, uniform.

They've been on the move for more than three hours without any contact from Vila or Cally. Dayna, perversely, is enjoying herself; it pleases her to function competently in such a dread field of battle. Also, her isolated upbringing on Sarran left her abysmally naive about her fellow man. D'm'nk is an education for her, showing her how humans entertain themselves; Tarrant has gleefully poked fun at her innocence and ignorance until she tells him exactly what will happen to him if he keeps it up.

Bar after bar, brothel after brothel they search, without luck. D'm'nk, or at least the Shade, seems never to have heard of public transportation. The subway comes in and goes out, and that's it. It also seems never to have heard of honesty or charity. Fortunately, Orac has his useful moments and they have a lot of counterfeit money with them; fortunately also, D'm'nk's police can be bribed for very little.

Just then, Dayna's bracelet beeps. "Yes, Vila?" she asks.

"Have you found him yet?" the thief asks.

"No," Dayna replies. "This place is like a maze. How about the others?"

"No word. Cally's found a place to wait," Vila answers. "It's not perfect, she says, but it'll do. You'd better go there, it's been almost four hours." He gives them terse directions.

Tarrant breaks in. "Have you heard from Avon? Has he had any luck?"

"No, Avon hasn't checked in. I can't reach him, either. I didn't expect to hear from him, though. Hurry back, we shouldn't be on the air long, they might trace you." The bracelet goes dead.

With a sigh, Tarrant and Dayna head for the safehouse.

 


	8. Part Seven

He has been searching for hours, criss-crossing the Shade like a migratory bird that can't make up its mind. He has seen more betting parlors and brothels here than he thought could exist on an entire world, let alone in one city. D'm'nk must have an enormous population, he thinks, or else this planet draws more visitors than it deserves.

So far, he hasn't found what he wants. He is being more choosy than normal, as if something has alerted him that on this planet he must take no risks whatsoever, other than the risk of simply being on it. Whence comes this heightened sense of danger? He doesn't know, but he trusts the instinct that engenders it.

Fear. He has never really felt it before. Before the cataclysm that propelled him into this headlong flight, he never had any need to. After all, he was a professional, working at a desk job. Even his hands-on experience was limited to the lab and the workshop. There was nothing to fear. He knew his job and he was damned good at it. That he was performing for a repressive dictatorship is something that he didn't discover for a long time. Since then, of course, he has been unable to practice his initial profession; instead, he has adopted a new trade.

The memories flood back, recollections of earlier, better days. Days when he was at the top of his field, when there was nothing to fear and only a full day's work ahead. His work has always meant everything to him; it wasn't a job to him, it was a calling, a nomination, an invitation to be a secret master, someone special, someone making a difference. No matter that others never understood him or his motives, or denied the value of his efforts; he knew its importance. Nothing could shake that assurance, that fervor, hence, nothing could scare him, not deep down. He had felt chosen, specially selected to accomplish something truly wonderful. That vocation, that sense of mission and destiny, had armored him in a kind of psychic immortality, a certainty of his own invincibility and invulnerability. Even the occasional failures, the deaths of others, hadn't shaken his sense of purpose. There had been nothing to fear.

That was then. This is now. There is plenty to fear now. It is out there, everywhere, especially where he can't see it. She is still after him. Perhaps they are too, finally. His mission has contracted in scope, from the spectacularly grandiose to the clawingly petty: stay free. Stay alive. Until...

There has been a new development. Stopping very briefly at a public datalink, he has accessed and queried a Federation system that he once worked out of and that still accepts his on-code. He has learned that a new group is now looking for him, and that they know where he is. Hmm. This is not unexpected. Not entirely unwelcome, either. It does raises the stakes, however. Also the potential payoff.

He is not particularly surprised. In fact, he wonders that it has taken them so long to track him down. They should have been after him a long time ago. Perhaps it is the added impetus of discovering that Servalan has located him that made them finally jump. Or maybe it was...something else. Oh well. The more the merrier. He has deliberately engineered precisely this kind of situation. And while he was never more than a mediocre engineer, he is very good at certain aspects of the profession.

D'm'nk is a labyrinth of danger, a maze of fear. It is a monkey puzzle, a cauldron for rats to squabble about in. Only by accident does it seem a place for men. It is a forest with trails that lead you in and never guide you out. The Shade is poorly named, for shade is a shield from light, and no light ever illumines this grubby blast of death.

He shudders as the premonition flashes through him. He has grown increasingly morbid in recent days as he has counted down toward the encounter with his adversaries. The murk and mist of The Shade are a fit companion for his unease and nervousness, he realizes. Then, with the determination that has always marked him, he shakes off his mantle of despond and once again blends into the darkness of his surroundings.

Parts of the Shade are less claustrophobic than others. He has reached a sort of metal-clad square with a devilish statue or monument in its center. Whatever it may once have commemorated, it is now little more than a cenotaph to filth, with which it is liberally decorated. Sniffing in disgust, he crosses the square to the buildings beyond.

Facing him is some kind of storefront, it seems, and underneath it a source of noise. Probably a bar, he figures. Worth checking out. He's been to nearly every other bar in the Shade without finding what he's looking for. He descends the steps and enters.

The Space Dog's Nightmare is a typical shipkicker's dirtrest. Crowded, noisy, dirty, and dingy, it never closes, hardly ever slows down. The grab-me girls are second-rate, as are the boytoys. The clientele is completely unremarkable, the usual melange of private ships' captains and mates, crews from the huge liners and transports, Federation forcers from warships calling to show the flag, mechanics, techies, pushers, badlegs, slammers, crimpers, topdogs slumming for thrills...probably some narks and undercover bluebirds as well.

As he enters, the noise assaults him. Churning, pulsating, stunning yet somehow bland, the music permeates the entire dim cavernous space. Every inch is filled with bodies, with twisting, whirling, gyrating joymakers. They are three deep at the bar, crowded around tables far too small for the numbers trying to sit at them, ringing the dance floor, lining up for the heads and the joyrooms. The smell of the place is truly amazing, combining sweat, sex, booze, and every drug known to the galaxy. The Shade never sleeps, and neither do its denizens.

He shakes his head, puzzled by the turn of fate that has brought him, once a noble Alpha, to this dung festival. The smirk never leaves his lips, and his extraordinarily bright blue eyes flash as he takes note of the revelers and criminals about him. He can see smugglers, counterfeiters, hookers and pimps, drug dealers, fences, hired killers, and other lowlifes making deals and receiving payments while, oblivious to them, spacers spend their credits for overpriced liquor and unsatisfying sex before heading back to the big black. Whoever said that going to space was romantic has never been there, he thinks. I don't know how much longer I can take this. Please, let's get this over with soon.

Just then a fight breaks out. Two burly females, one in crewclothes, the other a happyhen, are both trying to pick up a young woman in a Federation uniform. While she looks on in astonishment, they swing at each other with clubs and chairs, before a robouncer stuns them with its dumpgun. The owner is screaming for order, worried that the ruckus will attract the attention of the cybercops. But all is soon calm; relative calm, anyway. The robouncer picks up all three women and carries them to the rowdy cage, which is already filling up. Immediately, the floorspace that had cleared for the donnybrook disappears, as drinkers crowd back in. Within minutes, things are back to normal.

He makes his way up to the bar. Pushing between two nearly comatose cargo loaders, he orders a drink and turns around to survey the room again. The crowd is larger and more boisterous than he's seen elsewhere, but only in degree, not in kind. He snorts at his over-analytical mind, busily categorizing bar denizens. He can't turn it off, even while on the lam. Well, that's always been his strong point, maybe his only one.

He thinks everything through again. Once more he considers his strategy. Regardless of the angle he looks at it from, he's convinced it's his only hope. He is running out of time. No matter how good one is at hiding one's tracks - and he has almost become an expert - any trail can be followed given time. If the Federation really wants him - if Servalan really wants him, which she does - that time will not be long. He knows just how short it can be. She almost caught him on Lepanto, and only luck got him off the **Star Dragon** before her men boarded it while it was making planetfall at Triton.

Sooner or later, it is going to happen; a moment's carelessness, an overly suspicious bureaucrat or cop, a chance encounter with someone who once knew him - it could happen at any time, in any number of ways that couldn't be prepared for. Even **he** can't foresee everything. Sooner or later he is going to run out of space to run in. Sooner or later, he has to stand and 'fight.'

But how to stop running? He has a plan, but even with his skills, there's almost no way to ensure that it will work. Unless it does, of course, in which case he will later think that he knew all along that they would all behave as he hoped. He knows himself well enough to realize that. A bar like this is the best place to wait and see if he's right.

However, he has learned enough to realize that he needs a backup plan, a way out just in case other people don't behave as he wants, expects, and hopes. The last time he trusted to human predictability he was badly burned. Okay then, to be on the safe side, he needs a new identity, new papers; a bar like this is the best place to find such things. He scans the room intently, his large eyes missing nothing. He has to be patient, find exactly the man. His first mistake will be his last...

The black ship hangs in the middle of night. It bristles with armaments. It is the embodiment of menace. It is here not to start an argument, but to end one. It is silent, which only increases the threat.

In her cabin, the woman glares at the comscreen. "I know you haven't find him yet," she hisses. "But you **will** find him, Consul. That's what I'm paying you for. That is, if you don't want my forces disrupting your city...and your corrupt minions and their lucrative operations."

The man cowers. His large, ugly, sweating face blanches. "Madame President, I assure you we are doing everything we can to find this man. Dangerous rebels are not welcome on Fontina. We have no political ambitions here, as you well know. Rabble-rousers, demagogues, and terrorists are as hateful to us as they are to you."

She sighs and rolls her eyes to the ceiling. "Spare me the rhetoric, Consul Vedik. You are only afraid that harbouring rebels would give the Federation a reason to take you over. Don't worry. We aren't strong enough for that...yet. Just do what you promised, and I'll go away and leave you alone...for now."

The fear in the man's face is prettier than a picture. So is the confusion. "Madame President," he says, "surely threats aren't necessary between us. I'm only too happy to help you." A look of defiance comes into his eyes. "Besides, I know your real motive in searching for **him**. You need help against...isn't his name Chritas, your chief rival on the High Council? He won a vote against you last month, and you're scared of his growing power. So you need a major victory. Isn't that true?"

She stares at him in astonishment. "How...how do you know this?" she sputters.

Vedik smiles. "Actually, I wasn't sure if my source was accurate. You just confirmed it for me." He grins as he sees her grimace. "Oh, you needn't worry. Your secret is safe with me. I'll find **him** for you and you can bring him back in triumph. Enjoy cutting Chritas off at the knees. Satisfy your ambitions. Protect your power." The grin disappears, replaced by a hard look of avarice and determination. "But I want double my usual payment for this. Otherwise, I might just sell him to Chritas. Do we have a deal?"

Now the fear is on the other face. Servalan hesitates before speaking. "Take care, Vedik," she says, "I don't pay for the same thing twice. Nor do I submit to blackmail. And I do not intend to lose to Chritas. I'm on a warship heading for your vile planet even as we speak. Don't make me use it."

Vedik smiles again. "You wouldn't dare. You're supposed to be on Earth. No one knows you're here."

She shakes her head. "A Federation cruiser can attack a suspected rebel hideout without my presence. Don't worry, Vedik. I do need you. For now. Just don't push me too far." She tries to **telepath** her menace to him with her glare.

The fat man is still smiling. "I'm glad we understand each other. I'll be in touch soon." His face vanishes from the screen. It seems to her that his ugly grin remains behind for a few seconds.

The first thing she does is lower the heat in her cabin. Then she stands and paces, her mind racing, her fury growing with her fear. Vedik is a fool, she thinks. Like Chritas. Like Avon. Like **him**. Like all men. Does Vedik really think she is relying on him alone?

Servalan looks at the screen on her command panel. A tiny, very bright light shines on it. She consults a chart and reflects. Then she calls to the planet. It takes awhile to reach her contact, but only seconds to give the orders. The contact is scruffy, but very sharp. And greedy. Servalan sighs. One more person to wipe out when this is all over.

She cuts the connection. In frustration, she pounds the armrest of her command chair. All this trouble for one man. Admittedly, he **is** a genius, and admittedly, she has real need of him. An admission that pains her greatly. Letting him escape was a major failure on her part. It won't happen again, she vows.

With an almost feral grin, Servalan begins planning what she will do with her prey once he is in her grasp.

 


	9. Part Eight

Even from the street, Avon can hear the noise coming out of the cellar bar. This **is** the loudest one yet. Undoubtedly Vila would love the Shade, which is why Vila has been left on the ship. He has told the others that he would find the man, but now he is beginning to wonder. He's lost count of the dives he's visited, wishing he could hold his nose and block his ears. I'll never forgive Blake for bringing me to this, he thinks. If it hadn't been for **him** , I'd be rich and secure by now.

Have to get back to the others soon. Amazing how many hellholes you can visit in under ten hours, he muses. Definitely Vila's sort of tourism. The hell with all of them.

He nearly falls down the steps as he enters the dim underground booze palace. The stairway is jammed with people, though, and they keep him from stumbling. They hardly notice that he has crashed onto them. Some of them even seem to think it's a novel come-on.

With a shudder, Avon rights himself and moves away from the revelers. Trying to scan the dim interior, he marvels at the sheer number of people crammed into the basement. There is no way he can spot the man in here, not from a distance. That means having to descend into the pit, mix with the crowd, shoulder his way through. Not activities Avon relishes.

He picks his way through the tumult, noticing incidentally the many illicit dealings going on around him. At least half the clientele are hustlers of some sort or other, he figures. If the target is here, odds are that somebody will be happy to sell him to Avon. But who?

It takes him almost five minutes to push through to the bar. He discovers a mixture of human attendants and obsolete autoservers. Avon orders a synthocitrus screwdriver, one of the few cocktails he can drink. The fifty-credit charge startles him, but by now he is almost used to the grotesquely inflated prices of The Shade. He's been to over twenty bars in just a few hours, enough to realize that someone high up in the planetary government must be getting very rich off the goings-on here. Avon grins at the thought.

"What ship ya from, steel?" asks a scantily clad female. She looks to be all of fourteen, Avon thinks. Breathless, as though she'd been running. Skinny and with stringy hair, too. Ugly as sin, which isn't surprising to Avon. Highclass user-friendlies don't work holes like this. "Just skim in?"

"No, I've been here a few hours," Avon replies. "You must be desperate to approach me."

"Why? You look healthy enough." She has an unpleasantly scratchy voice. An electrolarynx, he thinks. A recent fad. Avon shudders. "Daz duds you're scoping," she goes on. "Prob'ly got a nice credtab, too. Whatsa matter, you like boys? I gotta cousin, be glad to compat with ya. Skay?"

Slang is slang, Avon thinks. Debased as the language is, there are always those trying to make it worse. What he wouldn't do to be conversing with Orac right now. Or even Vila...the thought makes him wince.

"No, I like **women** ," he states. "But maybe there is something you can do for me."

"I don't hike the dizzy, studbucket." The girl starts to back away from him. "That'd bring the big stick on me. You want dizzy, you call a hightech. I hike sex, that's all. Clean and happy. Skay?"

"Oh, of course," Avon temporizes. "I don't want drugs, or 'dizzy,' as you put it. I'm searching for someone."

The girl looks at him warily. "You the stick? I got protection, you know. He pays off regular, you're supposed to copy that. You ain't lockin' **me** up. I whistle, he'll come up and smash you. You want trouble? What kinda biz you hiking?"

Avon sighs. He is wasting time, except that he is desperate. He must make the girl help him. But how to convince her? "No 'biz.' I'm trying to find a man, someone who...killed my brother. I think he's in this place, trying to buy false identity papers. Who would he look for? I'm willing to pay a lot for the information." With Orac's carefully faked Fontinan currency, he thinks.

She smiles. "Oh, a getback. I like! You from the Blaze, ain't you, steel? Okay, for slick, I hike you some zap. But you donate first, copy? And megs, too."

Fortunately for Avon, lowerclass slang is quite uniform from planet to planet in this sector, probably as a result of the hyperwave viscasts seen on all the unFederated worlds. Thanks to some quick tutoring from Orac, who had foreseen the likelihood of its use, Avon can follow most of what the girl said. He seems to have convinced her that he is just a spacer from "The Blaze," the swath of planets with which Fontina does business, out for revenge. "If you're asking, am I from offworld, the answer is yes. Now, how does two hundred credits sound?" He holds out the bills.

The girl snatches them from his hand. "Don't show them, you zonehead, you wanna be jacked? Gimme real easy, like hidden! Hela, you some kinda highriser, don't know how to hike, do ya? An' I want more'n two hundred, anyway. You askin' me to dump on someone, you gotta bless me." She sticks out her hand, a big grin on her face.

Avon contemplates her ruefully. Even if he pays her more, there is no guarantee that she will really help him. But there is something about her that makes him feel she does know the sort of person his target would be looking for. She seems experienced, which is the only thing that would let a girl of her youth survive. He counts out another five hundred credits and slips them to her.

"Skay," she mutters. "You want Zelmo. I don't know if he's around t'night. You stay here, I look." She darts off into the crowd.

How many drinks has he had? Too many to maintain the edge he likes to cultivate. The edge he needs. He shouldn't drink at all, he knows. It wastes his limited money and it dulls his reflexes. But one can't spend time in a bar without consuming something. One can't find purveyors of false documents except in a bar. And one can't escape from this type of planet without papers. The tangle is much more complicated even than what he'd been professionally trained to do before all this. In his real life. So far back he almost can't recall it. Or dream of it recurring.

Still, things are beginning to take shape again. He's found a decent forger. It's taken him several hours, and more subtle maneuvering than normal. In fact, she approached him. At first he was wary, but when he saw the range of credtabs she was carrying, he realized she must be honest. Honestly crooked, that is. The police would never trust a lure with so much credit. Not in The Shade.

They have taken seats at a very tiny table. He has ordered a bottle of some kind of local killer for her. He is drinking off planet vodka. After pleasantries, they get down to it. He is impressed by her. She seems young, but very sharp. Very business like. "Are you sure you can do it?" he asks her. "That's a very difficult identab to forge, a Federation Customs Inspector's flash."

The woman nods. "Oh, I can make you a dupe. It won't be easy, but I can do it. But it'll cost you ten thousand credits."

It would be worth at least that much. "How soon?"

She thinks for a second. "Can't tell you. Need to track down an original to repro. At least a week. Maybe more."

This is probably true. She isn't trying to cheat him.

"I can't wait that long," he replies. "Make me a simple Spacehands Union membership card." He's done enough rough work since fleeing to qualify as a mate, a thought that nauseates him. With a union card, though, he can ship out as an engine johnny or even an astrogator...astrogator. An idea creeps into his mind. In a flash, he sees how everything could be, if it has to. Sure, sign on board a ship, steal it, and use it to get away. Avon would sympathize with that plan.

Avon. He hasn't thought about Avon today. What are they up to on **Liberator**? The things he could have done with that ship! Only...no, it isn't worth thinking about. His plans now run in a different direction.

"How much for that, and how long?"

The young woman snorts. "Hela, that's a kludge! Pick someone's pocket in here, you'll get a dozen of 'em. Okay, okay, I'll do it for you. One kay in real creds, and I'll have it for you tomorrow. Half now." He hands her the money under the table. "Same bat time, same bat-channel," she grins.

"What?" he asks, completely puzzled.

"Ancient viddy slang, so old it's from two-dee days. Don't'ya ever watch the stimscreen? Not even for zap? No? Hela, what a zeeg. Means see you here tomorrow, same time, same place. Okay, I'll leave first. Don't follow me. I got a bigbrother watching." She drains her glass, takes the bottle with her, and melts into the crowd.

After a few minutes, he stands up, leaves his glass. He's been here too long. Time to go.

Suddenly, he notices a disturbance break out near the bar. It seems to be a fight. Grateful for the entertainment, he moves a little closer.

Avon follows the girl as closely as he can, despite her telling him to wait. If she isn't going to cheat him, it doesn't matter; if she's not planning on coming back to him, he has to know it. But it isn't easy keeping up with her. She's so slight and agile, she almost melts her way through the writhing masses. Only Avon's determination enables him to keep her in sight.

Finally, he spots her about ten feet away, whispering to a small, nervous man. For some reason, the man reminds Avon of Vila. That puts him at his ease. The stranger might be a fence of some kind, or a forger, or a pickpocket; there's no way he's her pimp. Not with that face.

The two are in conversation for some time. The stranger keeps looking about anxiously, his hands constantly around his drink like he's praying to it. Obviously, he doesn't want to do whatever she's asking him to. He looks like a cornered rat. Avon decides to break the stalemate. He makes his way up to their table.

"Is this Zelmo?"" he asks the girl. Startled, she stares at him, unable to speak. Impassively, Avon pushes her away, and sits down next to the frightened man. "Don't worry," he said, "I'm not from the police...the 'stick'...I just want to ask you a question. I'll pay you a thousand credits for the answer. Then I'll disappear. Is that all right?"

The man doesn't look at him, but keeps scanning the milling crowd, as if searching for someone and hoping not to find him. Large, greasy globules of sweat drip off his red forehead. It's hot in there, but not that hot, Avon thinks. Something is wrong here...

"This is a test, right?" the man mutters through clenched teeth. "Vedik wants to know who he can trust, is that it? Well you can tell him Zelmo won't trick! Zelmo won't trick! Go on, tell him that. Who put you on to me? Was it the Vice Presidents? Those lying scum! They never even paid me for the zomb I hiked for them. And I took the stuff from a Blazer anyhow. Vedik would have gotten his share if they'd paid me. So it isn't my fault. You can tell Vedik that, why don't you? He knows I've never cheated him. Go on, tell him!" The man looks and sounds terrified.

The tirade startles Avon. Obviously the man has mistaken him for an enforcer of Consul Vedik, a powerful official on Fontina. Avon knows all about the man and his corrupt rule. And his close ties to Servalan. The girl must also have assumed he was from Vedik. The girl! Where is she? Avon hasn't noticed her leaving. What if she is calling Vedik now? Time to leave!

Avon jumps up from the table. Where is the exit?

It is hard to get close to the action, as everyone in the bar is trying to see it, too. He towers over most of them, though, bent over as they are by drugs, or booze, or sex. He peers through the dim light, his eyes straining to focus.

At last he is able to make out what's going on. A little, ratlike native is scuffling with a tall, dark¬haired man in leather. Leather? Can it be? It is!

He is astounded. He never thought he'd be found so soon.

He jumps up. He claws at the bodies, trying to force his way through. But the crowd is too thick. He gets nowhere, earns a few thumps for his trouble. Can't get out right now, anyhow, he thinks. And a moving target is easier to notice than a stationary one. Avon doesn't know he is here; his best bet is to wait it out.

Avon has enough trouble at the moment. Zelmo is much stronger than he looks. Pinioning both of the taller man's arms, he yells for help. In the din, no one hears his shriek. The robouncers probably think the two men are dancing.

 


	10. Part Nine

The knock on the door startles Cally. She must have nodded off, she thinks. But the knocks are in the right sequence. She opens the door.

Tarrant and Dayna rush in. They look weary. Cally sympathizes. She hasn't enjoyed tramping through The Shade trying to find an acceptable room. The sheer mental noise of the roiling neighborhood has pained her greatly. How humans can stand to live so closely packed was beyond her. She hopes Avon won't be too much longer.

"Any luck out there?" she asks.

"No," Dayna grunts. "You could search this slum for weeks and not find yourself. I don't see how Avon expects to track him down alone." She slumps onto a shabby couch in exhaustion. Tarrant scowls. The couch is practically the only piece of furniture in the room, he notices, looking around at his surroundings. No wallpaper, no windows, only one light, a naked overhead bulb. Cally had described it as ugly but perfect.

To Tarrant, though, it is apparently just ugly. "Couldn't you have found someplace a little nicer?" he complains. "Even for a safehouse, this place is a dump."

The women sigh. Dayna speaks first. "That's what makes it so useful. Who would think to look for us here? Avon will be able to track us here through our bracelets, but no one else will expect us to be in such a dismal place. Assuming that anyone else really is looking for **him**."

Tarrant sneers. "Assuming that Avon brings him back this way after he finds him. Assuming that **he's** really here and that Avon isn't simply running away from us. I wouldn't be surprised if Avon hasn't already teleported back to the **Liberator** and left us behind."

"No," Cally answers. "He would not do that. He would not run out on us. He's had other opportunities to do so. In any case, I spoke to Vila just a few minutes before you arrived. **Liberator** is still in orbit, and he's heard almost nothing from Avon."

"Nothing?" Dayna asks. "It's been over four hours already. Avon should have been back here by now. I think he's in trouble."

Cally shakes her head. "No. He'd have called Vila if he needed help. Plus, I'd have felt something, I think. I can sometimes feel Avon if he is in distress or great excitement."

Tarrant pound the wall in frustration. Chips of plaster come off and rain on the floor. "So we wait, is that it? Wait for the Great Hunter Avon to come back with his prize and tell us what to do next? I say we go after him." He strides to the door. "Coming with me, or are you going to cower here?"

Dayna grabs him. "Suppose he is in trouble? What can we do? Get caught ourselves? Let's try to call him. Cally, can you make contact?"

"He advised us not to call the ship. This planet has sophisticated sensors. They could trace us." They stare at her. "All right..." She touches her bracelet. "Vila, any word from Avon?"

The thief's voice crackles into the air. "Not for a long time, Cally. Not since I told him where you are. I can locate him for you, though. Hold on...he's about two kilometers from your position. North by northeast, I'd say. Or rather, Orac says. Shall I bring him up?"

Cally looks at the others. Tarrant shakes his head. "No," she replies, "but keep track of all of us. We're going out to look for him." She lowers her wrist, still staring at it.

Tarrant is already at the door. "I hope you know what you're doing," Dayna says to him. "What if we miss him in the streets?"

Tarrant smiles. "Then we just teleport back to the ship. Avon may be nasty, but he's no fool. He won't take any risks, not even for **him**. If we're not here, he'll know what we've done and return himself. Look, he told you he doesn't owe us anything. So what do we owe him? We're going to look for him. That's more than he'd do for us." Tarrant walks out the door without looking back. After a few seconds, Dayna and Cally follow.

A bar fight is an exercise in insanity. Especially in a crowded bar. Unless you can turn it into a general donnybrook...

Avon is still trapped by Zelmo's gorilla-like grip, and another downtimer is trying to climb up his back. Suddenly, Avon falls backward, on top of the monkey behind him, crushing the air out of his lungs. Then he swirls around, swinging Zelmo like a bob. The fence's legs crash into other drinkers, scattering them like tenpins. One of the disturbed revelers grabs Zelmo and begins drumming a tattoo on his face.

In the confusion, Avon begins to edge away from the fracas. He finds his way blocked by two huge shipkickers. What they want from him he can't tell and is in no mood to wait to find out. Before they can charge him, he draws his gun and fires. Both behemoths go down, crushing others beneath them. The noise and the flash throw panic into the crowd, which surges away from Avon, although no path clears. The bar is simply too crowded. Avon fires again, this time into the air. He hits a speaker, showering sparks onto the crowd and turning the loud music into louder distorted noise.

The screams and turmoil spread, engulfing the entire bar. The frantic crowd explodes into uncontrolled random motion. Tables overturn, chairs go flying, drinks spill onto the floor, making it too slippery in places to walk. Bodies pile up, crushed underfoot by the human stampede. Alarmed robouncers try to wade into the mess, but even those stalwart metal chaperones can't make headway against the sheer press of panicking partyers. Their helpless squawks go unheard in the noise of the riot.

Avon smiles at the disturbance he's caused. Even if the girl has called the authorities, they'll never be able to catch him in this morass. Slowly, he follows the surging mass toward the exit. It is hard to keep to one's feet.

Suddenly, a light fixture falls from the ceiling, crashing onto a knot of rioters. Fire breaks out, and the panic increases. Avon is swept away by a current of drunk and stoned lowlifes. Thrown off from the mass like a stone from a spinning tire, he smashes into someone and settles painfully on top of him.

Dazed and out of breath, Avon rests a second on his human cushion, then stands up. There's something familiar about the body...he pulls it to its feet.

Avon stares. It's **him**! He's been here all along! I've actually found him, he thinks. The man is out cold, stunned by Avon's landing on top of him. How to get him out of here? There has to be a rear exit. Putting the man's arm around his shoulder, Avon makes his way slowly around the bar and into the kitchen.

It's dark and dirty inside. His burden is heavy and unwieldy. Avon is sore and tired, but he keeps moving. Suddenly, he realizes he is missing his teleport bracelet. It must have been torn off in the riot. The man slumps off him to the ground. Avon starts back into the bar room, but then the man stirs. Avon draws his gun and points it at him.

The man opens his eyes and squints at Avon. Even in the dark, his eyes seem to shine. He exhales heavily. "Avon. You finally found me. Well, better you than Servalan, I guess. I should have known you'd be looking for me too. Unfinished business, I suppose. How did you track me down? No, don't tell me. Orac, right?"

For a second Avon doesn't answer. He contemplates his target, his deliverance. "Of course it was Orac. And you're right. You should have known. Shall we get out of here? By now they'll be looking for us both." He helps the man to his feet and they head for the rear exit. They go up the stairs.

They come out onto a narrow, filthy alleyway. Making their way around the corner, they suddenly hear the unmistakeable sound of a policetank approaching. It seems to be at the front of the bar. They dart back into the alley.

A loudspeaker blares. "Crowd will disperse immediately or we will fire. Crowd will disperse immediately or we will fire. Ten seconds to resume peaceable behavior or we will fire. Final warning." The din of the panicking crowd scarcely diminishes. It can't. There are simply too many people trying to get out of the burning bar.

They can hear the tank open fire. Screams blend with the sizzle of a blaster cannon. A vile smell floats around to the side of the building. Avon grimaces.

"The Fontinan police don't care much for their own citizens, do they? Or for those of other worlds."

The man smirks. "To catch us? Servalan would have them sacrifice half the Consulate. And they'd obey her, too. Well, now what do we do? Give ourselves up?"

"We wait. Cally has a safehouse near here. Then we'll get you up to the ship and get out of here."

"Suppose I don't want to go? I might have other plans."

"I didn't come all this way to offer you a choice. We need you. I need you. And we can't let Servalan have you."

The man sighs. "I thought you'd say that. No escape, is that it? Damn." He slumps against the building and closes his eyes, in weariness. Avon turns to look down the alley. He can just barely spot the crowd, running in every direction in horrified fright, scattering as the Fontinan forces continue to mow them down. There's no way out, it seems. Behind them, the alley ends in a high, dark wall.

He turns to his companion. "We've no easy way out. It looks like we're going to have to run for it. We'll get to the safehouse and wait. Just remember, I have a gun and you don't. I'd rather not use it, but I will."

"Oh, I have no doubt of that, Avon," the man says, still grinning. "Well, what are we waiting for?" He stands up and starts for the mouth of the alley. Avon, startled, follows a second later.

As they near the opening, they are greeted by a chaotic, hideous scene. Bodies line the square outside the bar, many still on fire. No one is making any move to help those who may still be alive. Nor is anyone removing the dead. The fortunate survivors are being brutally loaded onto hovervans by armor-clad riotbusters, shoved in like sacks of grain. As each van fills up, it roars off and is replaced by an empty one. Avon is astounded at how many people must have been inside the bar, to have so many dead and still be able to fill van after van.

"Now what?" asks a cynical voice in his ear. "There's no way we can get through there." Avon considers. He is a survivor, that is his most ingrained characteristic. Even in his own cause, he will not risk suicide. The police are combing the bodies, searching for the living; they will reach the alley shortly. Can't wait, can't run. Any other choices?

Well, there may be one. He edges close to the end of the alley, motioning to the other man to form up behind him. Peering around the edge, Avon notices a policeman approaching. He conceals himself flat against the wall, waiting for the cop to get just to the mouth of the alley and...

There! Avon grabs the man's neck with both hands, pulling him into the alley in a great arc all the way around him, smashing him into the wall. The man's head collides with stone in a sickening thud. He collapses against the ground as if shot. Avon quickly removes his uniform and tries to put it on. It doesn't fit. He motions to the other man. Taking the policeman's weapon, he returns to the edge of the alley, hoping to lure another his way, hopefully a larger man.

He looks back at his companion, who is zipping the uniform up and putting on the helmet. He looks just like a trooper, Avon thinks. "All right," he says. "Go out there and bring back another one. Don't forget that I'll be covering you. Any sign of treachery and I'll kill you."

The man nods and steps out into the square. Suddenly, he rushes back. Avon looks past him. A host of policemen are approaching the alley, all with weapons unslung and leveled. The trooper he killed must have been missed, he realizes. They are both for the chop now.

Avon draws his gun and fires, dropping several of the onrushing police. He hands his companion the riotgun and then resumes shooting. "Look!" he shouts. "Pretend you've taken me captive. It's our only hope!" The helmeted figure nods. Avon pivots to look at their enemy. Suddenly, he sees a flash of something out of the corner of his eye. He turns his head just in time to see a black-clad hand sweep down at his neck. He raises his arm to ward off the blow, but too late. The black uniform merges with the air as total darkness submerges Avon into nothingness.

 


	11. Part Ten

Even as a trio, it isn't easy to traverse The Shade unmolested. It's not just the assault gangs; even the hookers team up for the sport of waylaying strangers. Tarrant has to burn two ugly women who are after Cally, and Dayna breaks several necks. No one notices. Apparently it is proper Fontinan etiquette to leave your victims lying in the street. They spot several bodies along the way.

A few quick calls to Vila point them in the right direction. Orac has guessed that Avon may be in one of two or three bars, all on the same half block. They are nearing it when suddenly they hear blaster-fire and screams. Panic-stricken people rush past them.

Tarrant grabs one. "What's going on?" he shouts at the terrorblind man.

"Riot in a bar!" the man screams. "Police opened fire on us as we were trying to leave! Killed my captain! I'm just a simple spacer!" he wails. Tarrant lets him go.

"'Simple spacer' my afterburner," he smirks. "Not in a place like this."

"Riot in a bar," Dayna grins. "Sounds like Avon's sort of ruse to get out of a tight place." She sprints ahead of Cally and Tarrant, who follow her reluctantly.

They turn a corner. Even in the dark, the fires light up the street brightly enough to see. There are piles of bodies everywhere. No medics to be seen. Many police. Cally looks hard. There is an alley on the side of the building, and some police are dragging two bodies out of it. It looks like...

"It's Avon!" she screams. Dayna is right beside her, Tarrant to her left. Cally draws her gun, not sure who or if to shoot. Damn, she thinks, my reflexes really have gone.

Dayna yells in her ear, "Follow me, Cally!" She looks around for Tarrant. He is running toward the bar. Both women chase after him.

What is he after? Avon seems caught. He may not even be alive. Even Tarrant can see that. But he'd never just abandon the computer tech. Whatever the risk. As he approaches the knot of figures at the mouth of the alley, he draws their attention. He dodges and weaves, firing as he does so. From behind Cally thinks there's something to be said for mindless heroism.

Two of the blueclads fall, killed or wounded she isn't sure. Tarrant is on the others before they can react, busting one in the temple with the butt of his gun, kicking the other under the jaw. But more come running and Tarrant finds himself surrounded, grappling with a multitude. Even a hero can't fight the law of numbers. He goes down under a fusillade of fists.

Just then, Dayna joins in the fight, savagely and gleefully firing at their backs, then storming them with her person, kicking and striking out all around her like a circular saw, her training and personality merging seamlessly into a perfect avatar of atavistic ferocity.

This new target attracts the riot police away from Tarrant, who is able - barely - to get to his feet and stumble away, still in a daze. As his head clears, he somehow notices Cally kneeling at Avon's side, trying desperately to fit a bracelet to his wrist. Before she can do so, two riotbusters grab her and throw her aside, one of them hoisting Avon to his shoulder and tossing him in the back of a hovervan. Before she can react and before Tarrant can intervene, it speeds off.

Cally can't believe it. She always carries an extra bracelet for just this sort of emergency. While Tarrant and Dayna were handling the police, she had immediately gone to Avon. The first thing she'd noticed was that he wore no bracelet. But there was something wrong with the catch on her spare, she hadn't been able to get it on his wrist. Now he's gone...

Despair is not for Tarrant, though. He shakes her, tries to get her to come to his senses. "Dayna!" he cries, "look out for her," and then he's off again. Back to the mouth of the alley. Dayna stands near the Auron woman and stares at his receding back.

What is he doing now - ? She sees him grab a tall man trying to get out of a black uniform. They struggle. Tarrant is trying to knock him down. Who is it - their target! She's never met him, but he looks just like his picture. Dayna is off, instantly, at full speed. Cally trails behind.

As Dayna approaches, she can see that the man is no match for Tarrant, but they don't have time to wait for him to win. She grabs the man's other arm. Tarrant swings his gun down on the man's head and cold-cocks him. He slumps into Dayna's arms. She motions to Cally. who quickly puts the bracelet on his wrist. This time there is no problem with the catch.

Their struggle has attracted the police. Two of them come running across the plaza. Tarrant shoots them down. He calls the ship. "Vila, get ready to teleport!" he orders.

"I can't," comes the thief's reply. "Avon's not registering! He must have lost his bracelet. Where is he? You can't leave him there!"

Tarrant shouts back impatiently, "We have to, Vila! They've got him, there's nothing we can do."

Vila wants to argue. "But Tarrant - !"

Dayna is firing at the police. "Tarrant, we can't wait here any longer. Either we go now, or they'll get us." Tarrant and Cally exchange agonizing looks. Then, Cally's gaze drops.

"Let's go," she mutters. "He wouldn't want us to sacrifice ourselves." Tarrant nods.

"Get ready to teleport us, Vila. Now!" They disappear just as the police turn their huge blaster on where they'd been standing.

Back on the ship they quickly query Orac about the riot. "Where do the D'm'nk police dispose of new prisoners?" Tarrant demands. After a few seconds, a map appears on the viewing screen. It looks almost promising. Provided they haven't recognized Avon for an important criminal, they will probably have taken him to a district registry for analysis and identification. If that shows nothing and it should, Avon isn't from this planet - he'll be tipped into a holding facility until they can ship him out to the metalmines as a slave laborer. Due process is somewhat abbreviated on Fontina.

"Right, then," says Tarrant, rubbing his hands together. "We go down and get him. Leave **him** ," he says, pointing to the man they rescued in Avon's place. "We'll deal with him when we get back. Dayna, you and Vila will come with me. We need you in case he's locked up," he says to the thief before Vila can object. The look in Tarrant's eyes is enough to silence him. He knows not to argue with that look.

Hurriedly they kit up and teleport down. Orac has been unable to make contact with the criminal justice system of the planet; it is so primitive it has no tarriel cells. The central computer of the Consulate is not networked into it in real-time either. Fontina has been inhabited for centuries; they've added computers as they needed new ones, but they never replaced the old ones. Frugal and therefore admirable, but a bit frustrating in this case. Avon would find it amusing if it weren't **his** butt being held.

They've been fast enough, it seems. The hovervan hasn't appeared yet. In fact, they can see it in the distance, sirens blaring and lights flashing, as it tries to make its way through the heavy traffic on the street. "Here's the plan," Tarrant tells the other two. "We'll make a diversion, Vila, while you open the back of the van and get him out. Here's a bracelet for him." Dayna nods. Simple and direct. These police are amateurs, they won't be expecting a breakout right in front of the jail. Vila gulps and wipes some sweat from his forehead.

Tarrant and Dayna take their places in the middle of the street. They point their guns at an approaching car. It skids to a halt and the driver gets out, obviously petrified. The street outside a police station is the last place one would expect to be held up. Unless one's attackers are themselves cops. Which is what the person apparently takes Dayna and Tarrant for. "Right," she snarls at the hapless man. "Get out of here!" With her gun pointed straight at his face the man needs no further encouragement. He runs down the street as fast as he can. Tarrant grins at his receding back.

"Great, Dayna!" he exults. The two of them level their weapons at the car and shoot. It bursts into a small, but very satisfying flame. They see the van approaching, its crew alerted by their action. Not long to wait now.

From his hiding place, Vila shakes his head at their foolish boldness. Rescuing Avon will require tremendous risks, he realizes, and he is all for getting the computer tech back. But those two seem to relish being targets! Vila has never been able to understand the attraction of begging others to kill you. He shrugs. Probably another of the many flaws in his character. He tries to focus on the task ahead of him. What kind of lock would be on the back door of a paddy wagon?

The van comes very close to the wreck. It stops and sinks to the ground, its hovermotor shut down. Three large riotcops emerge slowly, wary but not particularly frightened. Tarrant stands outside the burning car, hands on hips. He can see Vila sneak around to the back of the van, unnoticed by the cops. Work fast, Vila, he thinks.

"What the hell happened here?" asks the largest of the riotcops.

"I have no idea," Dayna simpers. "We were walking this way when someone fired on the car and ran off. We saw you coming and thought we'd wait to tell you."

The cops look at each other. "All right," the big one says, "let's see your papers." The three approach.

Dayna looks at Tarrant. **Now**! her eyes seem to signal.

Two **Liberator** guns are drawn in perfectly synchronized unison. They flash in murderous harmony. All three riotcops are down, two by Dayna's handiwork. The two rebels, without waiting to see, are sprinting for the rear of the van. As they move, more police are pouring out of the station.

Vila has the main lock open, but there's a secondary catch that he hasn't quite managed. Tarrant again doesn't wait, he just rips the door off its hinge. Inside the large hold there are many frightened prisoners who bolt out as soon as the way is clear. They nearly trample Tarrant in their flighty panic.

Inside, Avon is lying on the floor, apparently unconscious. Dayna jumps in and drags him to the door. Tarrant sits him up, trying to bring him to. Vila fumbles with the spare bracelet, dropping it to the street before lifting it again to Avon's wrist. He is just about to secure it, when...

When suddenly the air shimmers and their surroundings simply vanish. Tarrant blinks. When he opens his eyes, he is on the **Liberator** , in the teleport section. Dayna and Vila are with him. Avon isn't. Without waiting for them to recover, he sprints for the flight deck, furious. The others follow, equally irate.

As they enter the bridge, they see Cally seated. A body lies slumped over the communications console. "What happened?" Dayna cries.

"Why did you bring us up?" Tarrant demands. "We were just about to rescue Avon!" He muscles Cally away from his station and sneaks a look at the course. Away from the planet, away in any direction at Standard by twelve.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I didn't bring you up. Orac did."

"Orac?" Tarrant and Dayna shout in unison.

"He," she says, pointing at the body, "was trying to contact Servalan's ship."

"Servalan?" Dayna asks in amazement.

"That makes no sense!" Vila exclaims.

"I know," says Cally. "Servalan's ship had just entered the system. Orac informed me of it. All of a sudden, **he** ran for the commdesk and tried to signal her. I'm not sure if he succeeded, I grappled with him. Somehow, I managed to knock him out. But Servalan had already called Fontina and told them to look out for us. They launched pursuit ships, about eight or ten of them. Suddenly Orac brought you up and then took us out of the system. I had nothing to do with it. I'm sorry, I couldn't do anything about it. Besides, it's just as well. I can't handle the ship by myself against pursuit ships. You know that." There are tears in her eyes.

Tarrant has no time for that. "Vila!" he says in his best Academy trained command voice, "get him to the medical unit. Zen! How long to outrun the pursuit?"

Approximately ten hours at current speed. They are long-range craft.

"What is Fontina doing with long-range pursuit ships and why would they launch them on Servalan's orders? Fontina's a neutral planet," Tarrant muses. "Something's not right here. Something doesn't add up."

He thinks for a few seconds. "Zen, maximum evasive course. Lose the pursuit as quickly as you can.

*Confirmed.*

He stands up. "Come on, we're going to get some answers from our new crew member." He walks off the flight deck purposefully. A few seconds later, the others follow.

 


	12. Part Eleven

How can anyone relax at a time like this? Simes keeps thinking that to himself, over and over again. The mood in Chritas's private chamber is one of bored impatience, intense anticipation, worried edginess. Simes hates sitting. He is a former Space Commander, an action-taker, a doer. Inactivity makes him moody, tense, restless.

Chritas recruited him for his knowledge of the Federation's enemies, for his strength in combat, for his ability to command and inspire. His gifts as a strategist are more than adequate, but of no special brilliance.

His main asset as far as Chritas is concerned is his hatred of Servalan, which the two men share. Simes has never reconciled himself to the very idea of a woman in charge of Space Command. But Servalan demoted him, stripped him of his command, dismissed him from the Service. Simes will do anything to help Chritas ruin her.

Unfortunately, all he can do now is sit around and wait. And watch. Watch while Baylin and Trager do everything. They are seated in a special alcove in Chritas's inner office, plugged into their consoles, reading data directly and interacting instantaneously with their machines and through them with Fontina. They are wizards, masters of the micro-universe. Simes hates them.

But he must admit that they're useful. Chritas needs their abilities. Therefore Simes must tolerate their presence, and he does. Barely. Which doesn't make him hate them any less. It doesn't ease his resentment of their superiority. It doesn't amend his frustration at having to sit by idly while they do all the work.

He has never trusted them. His mistrust of them, of everyone, is even greater than Chritas's, which he knows to be almost total. There is no way to monitor their actions, no known way to eavesdrop on a direct neural conversation with a cybersystem. For all he knows, they could be placing bets on the Big Wheel at Freedom City. Or manipulating a stock market system on Exchange World. Or participating in a groupsex simo with mindlovers on a dozen planets. Not that either looks like a particularly libidinous type. Still. Simes has a vivid catalog of fears.

For his part, Chritas almost shares his aide's suspicions. Though not his resentments. True, Baylin and Trager are sort of the ultimate in detached technical specialists. Mercenaries. Spare parts, to be plugged into a system like any other board or circuit. It just so happens that they work for him. That doesn't mean they owe him any special allegiance.

But Chritas is sure enough of himself and his power, his position, that he does not consider them a threat. As if anyone with mere technical proficiency could threaten him. He is the most powerful man in the Federation! And he is about to take care, finally, once and for all, of the most powerful woman. If either of his two brainos tries to get in his way, he will have no compunction about killing them. And they know it, too.

"Something coming through, Boss," says Trager. Chritas leans forward eagerly. It is about time. Servalan left Earth almost two days ago; since then, they've heard nothing.

"What is it?" he almost shouts. Simes, alarmed at his master's excitement, lays a restraining arm on the Councillor's shoulder. Chritas looks sharply at him, first in anger then in appreciation, and sits back. "What have you found out?" he asks in a more controlled voice.

Trager's eyes are closed. The datastream pouring into his cognitive centers is almost too rapid for him to assimilate. "Just a second, sir." He breathes deeply, fairly gasping for breath. Who says that being a netrider isn't physically taxing? A major session can be almost the equivalent of an Olympic event.

The computer tech relaxes after several intense seconds. "Got it!" he exults. Then he notice the icy, impatient glare on his employer's face. "Okay, sir, here it is. Something really strange has happened. There was this riot in some tavern in the Shade. You know, D'm'nk's nightside. The police ripped the place, disked the chips inside. Lots of deaths. All the survivors were arrested. Including Kerr Avon, leader of the **Liberator** terrorist gang. His crew tried to rescue him, couldn't. They did get away with someone else." Trager's voice trails off at that enigmatic statement, significantly.

Chritas falls for it. " **HIM**?" he asks, his eyes shining with sudden fervor. This is what they've been waiting for.

"Firm," answers the tech, using the slang that is the only distinctive part of his entire personality. "I mean, exactly, sir. The **Liberator** is now headed away from Fontina, with several Federation cruisers in pursuit."

"The presence of Federation cruisers around a neutral planet like Fontina is anomalous, you know," adds Baylin, the psychostrategist.

"Where is Servalan?" asks Simes.

"Her ship is still in orbit around Fontina," says Trager. "Been there since this morning."

"She's probably wondering what to do with Avon," says Baylin. "Hoping the fleet captures the **Liberator**. Hoping nobody finds out what just happened."

"Which we just did!" Simes cries. "Sir, this is what we've been waiting for. Servalan has handed us a weapon to destroy her with!"

"What do you mean?" asks Chritas in puzzlement.

Simes can barely speak, he is so excited. After all these years, he is thinking, Servalan has finally blundered, and very badly, too. "Sir, where is she now?"

"At Fontina," Chritas replies, still puzzled. "You just heard Trager tell us that. She's been there all day."

"And where is she supposed to be?"

Light finally dawns on the Councillor. A slow smile breaks out on his face. "In the War Room at Space Command HQ," he breathes.

Simes grins. "Exactly. She announced it to the entire Council. She lied. We have proof of her dereliction of duty. If there's a crisis going on, as she claimed, why isn't she in the War Room? And if then isn't any crisis and she's actually at Fontina, which she is, then **why** did she lie to the Council? What is she doing at Fontina? Why did she bring the Fleet with her when those ships are badly needed elsewhere? And why did she go off hunting **him** at just this moment?"

Chritas takes over asking the rhetorical questions, no doubt rehearsing what he will say later to condemn the Supreme Commander. "If her presence was required elsewhere, why didn't she inform any of the Council? Did she know the **Liberator** would be there? If so, why wasn't she ready for them? How could they capture **him** and get away?"

The tall Councillor claps his hands together. "I've got her this time! I'm going to reconvene the Council immediately in an emergency session and present all this information to them. I'm going to **demand** a vote of 'no confidence' in the President. If they don't agree, I may just have to take drastic steps to rectify the situation. The fate of the Federation is obviously at stake."

He stands, hands on hips, gazing at his staff. He looks every inch the man of destiny, the conqueror, the iron-willed leader. "Excellent work, you two," he says to Baylin and Trager. "Stay here and keep listening. Inform me of any important new developments. Simes, attend me in the Council Chamber. I may need you to take command of the guards. Gentlemen, when I see you again, I shall be the new President of the Terran Federation!" And he strides out of his office powerfully, purposefully, with huge steps, already trying out his new 'Presidential' walk.

Simes stares after him, watches as he leaves with a worshipful look, then collapses back in his chair. He is weak and limp. However many times he has been exposed to Chritas's dominating personality, it still affects him every time like an explosion, a sunburst. Simes is allied to the Councillor not just by hatred of Servalan. His military personality and training gear him to be obedient, to want to serve someone, to follow. In Chritas he has found the perfect leader, the ideal commander. No soldier could ask for more.

After several minutes of enraptured dreaminess, Simes recovers, regains his senses. He sits up, stares fiercely at the two techs. They are again embedded in their work, lost to all outside influence, attentive only to the 'trodes connected to their crania - their electronic umbilici, their taps on the datastream. Simes relaxes. He has nothing to fear from **them** , he thinks with some contempt. Soulless, bloodless techies. What could **they** do to upset Chritas?

 


	13. Part Twelve

Avon wakes up in a holding cell. There are about two dozen other prisoners from the riot with him. Many of them are bleeding, or sporting blaster burns or other signs of damage. There is no indication that any of them have gotten medical care. Both men and women are present, as are children. He groans.

"How long have we been here?" he asks. A few of the others look at him with dull eyes. One of them grunts and shambles over. Avon can barely stand to look at her, she is missing an eye and most of her teeth. Her uniform is torn, exposing certain parts of her ugly body.

"About three hours, chip," she says. "They're probably waiting for most of us to die, so they won't have so many to register. Anybody who could buy their way out of here, did so already."

Three hours, Avon reflects. Since what? He shakes his head, hoping to dispel the fog that is sequestering his memory. This is Fontina, he thinks. We came here...we came here to find...to find. He shivers. There was a riot in a bar. I lost my teleport bracelet. Then I was knocked out. I saw the others. From the...ship? From the ship. They couldn't save me. They left me. They left me! He kicks out with his legs.

"Hey, microbrain, watch it!" someone yells, clubbing him. He slumps back against the floor, mostly against people lying beneath him. "Not much room here, don't be swiping any extra." He is clubbed again, in the back of the head. He groans.

The cell is about three meters square. There are no benches, no shelves. It is full of people, alive or dead Avon can't tell. The smell is awful. Most of the people seem resigned to their fate, whatever that might turn out to be. "How do we get out of here?" he asks.

That draws a response. Some titters. "We **don't** , steel," someone snorts. Avon can't tell if it's male or female. "This is the Shade. The rule is, don't get caught. The mines always need new bodies. Unless your shipmates hike some gravity with the tiptops. You copy?"

No way out. Still, Avon is sure the others will be trying to get him back. He'll just have to wait. Ugh. How long can he take this hellhole?

Hours pass. It is obvious that inmates are dying while they wait. The stench gets worse, as does the others' indifference. Avon can't understand their resignation. Maybe they are right. Maybe there isn't any way out.

He stands up. He notices that one of the new corpses is the ugly woman who spoke to him when he first came to. She seems to have been a ship's mechanic. Most of the bodies are of spacers and techs. Avon remembers that the police had opened fire on the crowd as they were trying to flee the burning bar...a bar he himself had set on fire to cover his escape.

It comes to him! He'd been there to find someone...to find **him**. Where is he? He searches the bodies and the other prisoners. Not there. Either he's gotten away, or they recognized him - Servalan has told the authorities to look out for him - and are holding him somewhere else. Avon has to get out and find him.

What he would do to have Vila here now. In fact, at that moment, he'd do anything to have **Tarrant** there. Still, he is Avon, and he'll get out. The others have scampered, but he'll find them and make them pay.

He begins rifling the bodies, searching for anything that might help him escape. Nobody tries to stop him. It is difficult to deal with seared flesh and bloody scraps of clothing, but Avon persists. Sweat rolls down his forehead, and he finds it hard to breathe. His limbs ache and he wants to rest. Few of the corpses have anything in their pockets.

"The blutes always rob the bodies first, chip," says someone from the corner. Avon stares at the speaker, a young girl. She seems familiar.

"I'm not looking for money, thank you." He returns to his labors.

She gets up and comes over to him. "Hey, you like someone I seen before. You sport the Nightmare, studbucket? I hike sex there most nights. Guess I won't be able to after this. Prob'ly not much of the Nightmare left. Still, there's other pits I can work."

This stops Avon short. "I thought nobody got out of here," he says. The girl snorts.

"I can screw my way out. Done it before. Hela, daz-looking steel like you, you c'n prob'ly find a male-compat to let you go. Want me to hike it for you?"

Avon shudders. "No thank you. Still, so there is a way out. You were the one who called the police on me, weren't you? Is this how they treat informers on Fontina?"

The girl stares at him in shock. "You!" she gasps. "I thought you looked regular. You were backing on Zelmo! File and save it I dumped on you. Come around and input a getback, expect me to swim for you. No way! I had you read for a slammer from logon."

Avon's head is reeling from all the slang. He holds up a hand to stanch the girl's flood of talk. "Please! Whatever you think I am is wrong. I'm not from Fontina and I really was looking for someone. If I was a - what did you call it? - a "slammer" - an enforcer? - would I still be in here?"

She thinks about that for a second. "Maybe if Vedik decided to lose you. He's a tumor, he'd hike his mother for a few creds. If he hadn't killed her already. Nah, you don't act like a badtimer. Don't dress like one either. Okay, maybe you're for real. Won't do you any good. Look like you'll last at least a month in the mines." She grins.

"You still haven't answered my question," Avon persists. "If you were the one who called the police, why haven't they let you out yet?"

The girl suddenly looks uneasy. "Do' know. The blutes reck me, even at this sub-rot. Maybe they want me for a party?"

Avon presses his advantage. "So you've been arrested before." She nods. "Held here?" Again, she nods. "Have they ever kept you this long before?" She doesn't answer. Avon seizes her wrist and squeezes it. "Have they? Answer me!"

She cries out, "Let go, you're hurting me!" Avon squeezes again. "No! They usually let me out right away! My wrist!" Avon releases her. She sits down on a body and rubs her sore arm. "I think you broke it, you space waste."

Avon tries to pace the little cell. Something is going on here, he thinks. It's at least ten hours since he was brought in, maybe even longer since he'd been knocked out. Surely the others are trying to find him. Surely they can locate this lock-up. So why aren't they here yet? Tarrant is a fool, but he's a brave fool. He'd risk storming a police station to rescue one of the crew. So where are they?

The girl is standing close to him. "Look, I think I can pop us. If I do, what's my grat?"

Avon blinks. "I can get you off this planet. I might be able to pay you a lot of money."

"Neggo, steel," she says. "I want blood. I want you to delete Vedik. I'm in here because he's playing forget-me-yes, copy? He don't get to do that twice, not to me. I want him grounded for always. You can do it, I'd stake megacreds on that. You look real jug to me, real mean. Logon?"

A revenge killing. Avon can understand the desire. He'd felt it himself, against Shrinker. And look what that got him. Still, he'll promise almost anything to get out of this sepulcher. "Logon," he says, his voice cracking. The girl smiles.

"Gonna be busy here soon," she says. "Push the husks outa the way, I need some room." Avon complies with the grisly order. The girl tries to primp herself a little. It makes her seem a little less tawdry, a little less pathetic. Just a little. Avon suddenly understands what her plan is. It will be like having an orgy in a funeral home. He shudders.

"You mind watching a public fundance, steel?" she asks. "Some do. Don' know why. Nothin' wrong with doin' it in public, I always figured. Still."

Avon shakes his head. "Not if it will get me out of here," he says.

" **Us** out of here, steel," the girl corrects. "Then I show you where to find Vedik." Avon nods. "Good. So's we're tracking on that. Skay, you stand against that wall." Avon complies.

"Right, so listen. It's lateshift time, there's prob'ly on'y maybe two of 'em in there. I hope. Be ready." Avon tenses himself for action.

She looks up at the ceiling. For the first time, Avon notices the small camera. "Hey, blutes!" she yells. "Got some good-time stuff here, just looking for a stumpy blueskin to waste it on! I need it now, scumsuckers! Come in here and give it to me, if ya think ya can! Betcha can't make me quit!" she sneers, winking at Avon. "Come 'n' get it!" She removes her tattered jumpsuit top, her scraggly breasts drooping miserably. Avon averts his eyes. The girl continues her taunting.

Finally, part of the wall disappears. Two large policemen in shiny blue semi-armored uniforms stand there smirking. "How do, Glin," one of them says. The other, much larger, struts into the cell. "Nothin' stumpy about me!" he boasts.

Glin eyes him dubiously. "Then you've grown a new one since the last time," she sneers. The men glower and take a step forward. She retreats, looking scared. The two men grin wolfishly at each other and advance.

Suddenly, Avon steps out of the shadows, grabs each by the neck, and rams their heads together. A loud crack snaps through the air, and their bodies join the others on the cell floor. Avon looks at the girl.

"Daz action, steel!" she crows, stooping to rifle one guard's pockets, then pushing past Avon out of the cell. Taking the other guard's gun, Avon follows her into the narrow, dimly lit corridor. It is featureless, with a low ceiling and no markings of any kind, no doors or other openings. Avon can't tell how far down it continues.

"Where does this lead?" Avon asks.

"Out," says Glin, sprinting ahead. The corridor is about twenty meters long. At the end of it is a metal door, locked by a touch pad. The girl inserts a keycard she's taken from the policeman's body. The door opens. She steps through it. Avon is right behind her.

They are in a tiny office. It is dark and cluttered. Glin uses another keycard to open the door. They enter a small vestibule and pass through it to exit onto the street.

It is raining outside. Avon's eyes dilate rapidly against the negative light. He shudders, thinking of what has passed inside the police station. He breathes deeply. Someone is pulling at him.

"Come **on** , steel," yells the girl Glin. "They ain't gonna just let us glide outa here, crashhead! We gotta turbodance, copy?" Avon stares at her, then nods. "Good," she says. "Follow me." She darts off into the night.

Avon runs after her, his lungs pounding.

 


	14. Part Thirteen

A moment of triumph should be savored. It should flow like a smooth, even stream of time, instead of tumbling downward like a waterfall. Chritas is full of himself, his heart is pounding. He can't concentrate on enjoying this, he's so excited. He can't wait for it to start, can't wait for it to be over, though a victory like this will never come again and he knows he should be stretching the moment, the feeling, out.

It is the Council Chamber. Never has it been so crowded. There are three times the usual attendees. All the Councillors, with one notable exception. All their aides. The Council's own staff. Plus Senators, bureau and department heads, and other prominent figures. And neutral guards this time, not Servalan's hand-picked stormtroopers. Chritas has it all figured out.

The visitors are packed against the wall in chairs three rows deep. The atmosphere is oppressive, although the airjets are working at multiple capacity. Even so, their whine is lost beneath the droning hum of the huge audience - a sound of expectation, of dread, of hope. There is going to be murder done here, they know, and they are all eager to witness it. As long as the bloodletting spares them.

It is time. Chritas enters, regally, imperiously. He takes his seat at one end of the extra-long table, nods to each of the other Councillors in turn. One seat is conspicuously empty.

The acting chairperson bangs his woodcrys gavel, an ancient symbol. Nervously, he clears his throat, calls the session to order. "This extraordinary emergency meeting of the Council has been called by Councillor Chritas to consider grave charges against Her Excellency, the Madame President." No mention of her name. This has all been carefully orchestrated by Chritas. She is to be treated as an unperson already.

The chairperson continues. "The charges include the following counts of malfeasance in office: lying to the Council, aiding and abetting the escape of wanted criminals and rebels, making illegal alliances with hostile governments and governmental figures, entering into private arrangements with organized crime figures for personal gain, abusing the President's emergency powers, abusing Presidential authority as Commander in Chief, and taking unauthorized leave from Presidential duties. Sustaining any one of these charges would require the Council to impeach and convict the Madame President, remove her from office, and confine her in close arrest. I yield to Councillor Chritas to proceed with the case against the President."

The buzzing resumes briefly, only very briefly, while Chritas unfolds himself from his chair and rises, majestically, to his full height. He is dressed in his most elaborate and formal costume; he has had a cosmetech 'do' his hair and make him up especially for this session. Although it is not, of course, being broadcast live, it is being taped; carefully selected sections of it may be shown to the masses later. After Servalan is safely out of the way.

Quickly, expectantly, the audience in the Chamber grows quiet, coldly quiet, as Chritas begins to speak. In the back of his mind is ever present the thought, the realization, that as much as most of the Council despises Servalan, that does not automatically translate into support for him. His rapid rise and obviously insatiable ambition for climbing even higher have made him a powerful but unpopular figure. He will get no benefit of any doubt here. No one will vote against Servalan just to placate him. She is too dangerous for that. He must **prove** his case beyond any shadow of any possible doubt to win. He is positive that he will do so.

Mustering every rhetorical trick he has ever learned, Chritas begins. "Two days ago, we were met here to discuss the future of the Federation, that last best hope of Humankind. It will surely not have escaped the attention of anyone present in this Chamber that the Federation has recently passed through a storm, a maelstrom, of strife. The Andromedan War, the destruction of Central Control, the constant challenges of rebellion and disarray, the growing impudence and audacity of unFederated worlds...at no time in our history have we been so beset.

"At no time in our history have we so needed strong leadership."

He pauses, glares at each face in turn. Resumes.

"Strong leadership that we have not been provided.

"Strong leadership that we once expected, but that recently we have been deprived of. Noticeably deprived of.

"At first it was a surprise, but not a total one. After all, which of us is so strong that we can sustain our strength eternally? At every possible moment? It was to be expected that at times even the strongest might falter, briefly, minutely. All understood, all forgiven. Such is our compassion.

"But when time passed, and more time passed, and no sign of the return of that strength was seen, we began to wonder. Even to doubt. Some of us made excuses, and waited and hoped for the best But even the most patient, the most hopeful, must finally demand to know: what is happening? Why are we no longer being led? Who is in command?"

Chritas pulls himself up to his fullest height He towers over the assemblage. "The answer, my friends, is - **NO ONE!** " He roars the last two words, startling everyone. "We are not being led. We are being mis-led. Led down the black hole of ruin and chaos. Led by a megalomaniacal, arrogant, cruel, power-crazed dictator whose only cause is her own ambition, whose only goal is her own deification, whose only ethic is herself. We are being used and traduced by the one person we should most be able to trust."

"These are harsh words. The charges in the Chairman's indictment are harsher yet. I regret the necessity of being of being so harsh. But the situation will allow no other! Our Federation is in danger. We are adrift, lost as if in a starship without a navigator. Leaderless. **Worse** than leaderless. We are in the hands of a madwoman, a deranged psychopath, a she-devil devoted only to herself. She will sacrifice us all in the flame of her own ambition. Indeed, she is doing so now." There is fire in Chritas's eye as he speaks, burning red in his cheeks. He is caught up in the flood of his own rhetoric, his own charisma. He believes every word he is saying, believes that Servalan is the incarnation of evil and that only he can deliver the Federation from her clutches.

"But these are merely words, you protest, harsh as they are. True, I say. Where is the proof behind my words, you demand. Here, I answer." He points to a screen that has suddenly appeared on the long wall of the Chamber. It shows a scene of a large white space, filled with humming, glowing electronic equipment and bustling figures. "Behold the War Room at Space Command Headquarters. The War Room, that vital nerve center of our defenses, where a Commander in Chief sits to direct crucial military operations. The War Room that the Madame President said she was headed for when she adjourned our session two days ago. A War Room that, as you can see, is conspicuously missing any sign of the Madame President A War Room that is engaged only in routine observations of current Fleet maneuvers. A War Room that knows nothing of this mysterious 'emergency' that was the President's excuse for dismissing us so abruptly." He pauses to allow the scene to impress the Council sufficiently.

One of them speaks. It is Talurin, Supervisor of Mandated Productive Forces -- slave labor, that is. A devoted neutral. "Are you telling us that Servalan is not at Space HQ?"

A moron, thinks Chritas. After my victory, he'll be one of the first to go. But I must be polite to him. For now. "So it would seem, Esteemed Councillor Talurin. No one there has heard from the President since last week. She received no message from them two days ago. There certainly is no emergency that they are aware of." He smiles, a bit sadly, as if he is reluctantly presenting this bit of evidence that the President of the Terran Federation, the beloved Servalan, is a liar.

"Not only that, fellow Councillors. I have evidence that the President has been interfering in Fleet operations for her own purposes. You may be wondering where the President is, if not at Space Command. It would probably astonish you to learn that she has taken much of the Fleet and traveled **outside** the Federation to a planet called Fontina. Where she is engaged in an illegal negotiation with a criminally corrupt government official over a kidnaped fugitive from justice." Chritas gives them the details, spinning them, of course, to put Servalan in the worst possible light.

He begins to conclude. "From what I have said, fellow Councillors, there can be little doubt that the President is guilty at the least of dereliction of duty, of lying to the Council, of illegally using Fleet vessels for her own ends, and of betraying Federation secrets to an official of an unFederated government." Again, he shakes his head, though this time sternly, as if to underscore his disapproval of her actions.

"As First Vice President, I called this emergency session to lay these facts in front of you. I tell you now, it is our duty, unpleasant as it may be, to take whatever steps are necessary to protect the Federation against any further depredations of this kind. Fellow Councillors, I now move that we adopt and vote on a measure of 'no confidence' in Madame President Servalan, and that she be impeached and removed from her office." He falls silent, staring for a moment at the other Councillors the way an eagle surveys a valley. Then he sits down.

An icy silence pervades the Chamber. None of the other Councillors will look at Chritas, none will look at any other. Finally, the craggy voice of the chairman breaks the stillness. "A motion has been made. Do I hear a second?"

From the far end of the table, two hushed voices murmur, "Second." It is impossible to identify just who has spoken.

"Moved and seconded," croaks the chairman. "Is there any discussion, or shall we proceed to a vote on the measure?"

Then it happens. Two Councillors start to speak at the same time, as different in age as they are in experience and shrewdness. The older one smiles coldly, defers with ostentatious grace to the younger, who begins to speak, or, rather, stammer.

Inwardly, Chritas smiles, though he maintains a rigid outward front. This was to be expected. Senator Bercol, former head of the Information Bureau and now director of the Policy Study Group, and still a staunch Servalan loyalist. And Dalbeen, nominal head of the President's Secretariat. In truth her current lapdog. It is Dalbeen who is rushing, badly, through his defense of his patroness. And of himself.

"I-I must p-protest the C-Council's ridiculous haste in this in matter," he falters. "Surely the P-President has reasons for her actions. She has led us for s-so long, with such v-vision and f force. Are we to t-turn on her now th-that she is unable to d- defend herself?"

You're not helping her any, boy, thinks Chritas.

"Councillor Dalbeen, may I intrude myself here?" It is the wintry, oily voice of Senator Bercol. Dalbeen, face flushed and out of breath, looks with a pleading gaze at Bercol, nods, almost collapses out of gratitude.

Bercol's thin lips stretch in what might be called, for lack of a better term, a smile. Except that those who know Bercol would never mistake that look for anything to do with humor. Chritas has been following Bercol's career for years, loathes and despises the man. And fears him. If ever a person could be called totally cold, totally inhuman, totally lacking in any fellow feeling for others, that would be Bercol. Nothing matters to him but his own survival. Even the Federation exists for him only as a platform for his own existence. Servalan is his creature, his creation, almost his surrogate daughter. He backs her because no one else will have anything to do with him; if she goes, he must surely follow. For that reason, he will support her to his utmost. But no one would ever mistake that for genuine loyalty to her.

He begins, his raspy voice grating on Chritas's nerves. "I must admit to some surprise at the haste with which the Council proposes to act One would think a true crisis was threatening us. A crisis other than in Councillor Chritas's ambitions." A few titters from around the table, silenced not at all by Chritas's glares. Bercol relaxes. He has at least interrupted the juggernaut of anti Servalan sentiments.

"What is Madame President Servalan charged with? What does this whole indictment really come down to? Basically, that she told the Council one thing and did another. She lied. She took the Fleet off on a mission she didn't share with the rest of us. Tut tut. Off with her head." The sarcasm in his voice can't possibly be missed. Chritas, no mean speaker himself, recognizes in the old Senator a true master of rhetoric. Despite himself, despite his anger at the man's effrontery, he steels himself to listen. Maybe even pick up a few tricks.

"Fine. She shouldn't have lied to us. But did she? Is the President required to inform us of everything? May she not maintain the occasional secret for special reasons? The Constitution does not deny her certain powers of security when circumstances make it necessary. In any case, while she may have seen fit not to take Councillor Chritas into her confidence, she has been more forthcoming with others of us. And keeping the First Vice President in the dark, however arbitrary that may have been, is not by itself an impeachable offense."

There is confusion evident around the table now; both Bercol and Chritas are aware of it. Bercol has defused the issue, at least a little. Now he hastens to spread the confusion further. "Madame President Servalan is not at Space Headquarters. Granted. She is stationed near the planet Fontina. Admitted. She did not tell the whole Council why she took this action. In her absence, I plead Guilty for her. But she told some of us. Myself and Councillor Dalbeen, to name two. For reasons of security she could tell no one else. We were pledged to keep her confidence. We are still pledged to do so. But the Council may be sure that her reason for doing so was an excellent one, vital to the security of the Federation, and that when she returns she will be happy to make a full explanation to the entire Council. In the meantime, I think it highly irregular, even illegal, to hold this session and to debate this motion without hearing her rationale." Bercol finishes, wipes his brow. Even he isn't as cool as he sometimes seems.

"Ex-exactly," stammers Dalbeen. "We must-must wait for her return. She will t-tell us everything. I'm sure you will all find her explanation satisfactory. You should at least wait for her." Several heads around the table nod, as if in agreement

Chritas is beginning to feel things slipping away from him. This is not what he expected. Can it be true? Did Servalan really tell Bercol and Dalbeen what she was up to? Can she really have had a legitimate reason for doing what he knows she's actually doing? And, more importantly, does he still have the votes to prevail?

"Councillors, Councillors." The Council Chairman, interrupting the buzzing of voices. "A motion is before us, made and seconded. You may vote aye or nay, or you may decide to table it. But the motion must be voted on before the Council can turn to other business."

"Unless the Councillor wishes to withdraw his motion," says Dalbeen, startling Chritas. He has underestimated the youth, who is sharper than he seems under his unfortunate exterior.

Everyone looks at Chritas, sympathy in no one's eyes. The moment of truth, as it were: withdraw and hope for a more fitting time to put the motion again, or press forward now with a vote. Will those not aligned with either side go along with him, or will they resent being forced to choose and, therefore, vote for Servalan? Will they decide to delay until she can return and explain herself? Either will be a defeat for him.

Time to decide. No time to decide. But he is Chritas, he is the man of destiny. His mouth opens. speaks without seeming to consult his brain. "The Council has a motion before it," he says. "I call for a vote."

That simple. Make everyone present be counted. He is a formidable presence on the Council, and Servalan is not here. Many will vote his way for that simple reason. Do it! There is no victory without risk!

The Chairman begins to call the roll, starting with the Vice Presidents, all six of them, and proceeding through the roster. Except for Servalan, the entire Council is present. Twenty-three in all. Chritas can count absolutely on nine votes, including the Chairman and himself. Servalan numbers only three certain supporters. What of the remaining eleven?

The vote is slow and uncertain, with many Councillors passing. No one wants to commit himself. Servalan isn't here in person, but her influence remains. Most here owe their positions to her, even those who are going to oppose her. It isn't easy to vote against someone who has been such a powerful figure for so long.

Gradually, though, a pattern emerges. After fifteen Councillors have actually voted, there are ten 'ayes' and five 'nays.' Chritas needs only two more from the remaining eight to win! He is so close that he starts to feel it has already happened. He begins to feel faint, his head seems to start spinning.

Suddenly, young Dalbeen stands and heads for the exit. Obviously, he is going to try to warn Servalan. The guards block the doorway. At a signal from Chritas, they stand aside, though, and let the nervous youth out. Chritas can afford to let Servalan find out now. It is too late for her to stop things. Too late!

The vote has come to Bercol. The aged Senator stares through his slitted eyes at the others, as if calling them to account for their action. The vote is eleven to six for the motion. Of the remaining six, he is the only one certain to vote against it. At least two of the others are likely to support Chritas. Bercol can count as well as anyone else there, he must know that he has lost. Still, he refuses to accept the inevitable. Chritas musters a small parcel of respect for the old politician; he is going down fighting.

Bercol continues to survey the lengthy table, his eagled gaze heavy with obvious contempt. The Chairman repeats his name, again calls on him to announce his vote. Slowly, painfully, the Senator rises to his feet, steps away from the table. Clears his throat. Speaks.

"I protest this usurpation of supreme power by this Council. This session was illegally called. This vote is meaningless without the presence of the accused. The evidence presented against her is worse than rubbish. I call upon all of you who still harbor patriotic feelings to renounce this vile charade and declare your loyalty to your true leader, Madame President Servalan."

Silence ensues. A few Councillors, embarrassed by this ridiculous display of sentimental weakness, lower their eyes, unable to look at the old man who has been betrayed, for once, it seems, by a spontaneous rush of emotion. Bercol is right, of course; everyone sees that. Chritas didn't really have the authority to call this session of the Council. It is dreadfully unfair to proceed with a vote of impeachment against the President without allowing her to explain and defend her actions. But what has fairness to do with it? Chritas is here and she isn't. This is perhaps his one chance to overthrow her without bloodshed. Few along the table blame him for seizing this opportunity. Fewer still will be swayed by Bercol.

Nevertheless, the old Senator isn't giving up. "I say again, the evidence against Servalan is rubbish. Meaningless fakery. We have heard no witnesses, seen no data-reads. We have heard a Councillor speak who is a known enemy of the President. But words are all he has given us, except for a view of the War Room that could have been faked. Yes, faked! I have already told you that Servalan is undertaking an official mission for the Federation, and that soon she will return to explain to all of you what she has been doing. This premature vote insults her and her years of service.

"Unless Chritas has any real evidence against her. If he has, let him share it with us now. Or I will refuse to give up the floor to allow this illegal exercise in rebellion against our lawful President to continue."

Bercol sits, his eyes burning holes into Chritas's chest. Scattered applause accompanies him, dying out quickly as the troops scan the audience to locate the offending claque.

Chritas smiles. Bercol has played right into his hands, he thinks. I have all the information from the Weasel. All I have to do is play the tapes that Baylin and Trager collected, and they'll all have to agree with me that she has betrayed us.

He stands. "Fellow Councillors, Senator Bercol is quite within his rights to ask for further evidence. I had hoped not to have to do this, for once I present what I am about to, you will find that you will not only have to vote to impeach Servalan, you will have to convict her of treason as well. A crime that, in one of her position, will demand capital punishment. I had hoped to avoid this, but the Senator gives me no choice." He sits, nods at Simes, who plays with a control set in the armrest of his chair.

The lights dim, a screen lights up. It shows scenes of Servalan and Vedik negotiating over a contract for the Fontinan to provide her with services in return for her recognizing him as dictator of the planet. She is seen talking with Glin, with her Fleet commander ordering him to bring a number of ships with them. There can be no doubt, it would seem, of her guilt.

The screen goes dark. The Chamber lights come back on. Chritas stands again. "As the Council will have noted, the President has been dealing with our enemies at the expense of the Re-Federation. I call upon all of you to convict her of treason, and to vote for her execution."

Chritas sits, tremendously pleased at how it is all going. That old fool Bercol! Giving him an opportunity to dispose of that bitch permanently - he couldn't have asked for anything more. The reaction of the others at the table seems to confirm his joy. Most are nodding in seeming agreement with his demand, as if convinced of Servalan's treachery. Only one more vote is all he needs!

Bercol is sitting there calmly, that superior look in his eyes, like a wise man contemplating a bunch of idiots. He shakes his head very slightly. "Councillor Chritas seems to think that his little show is enough to make us all dance at his bidding. I'm sorry that others may be as easily impressed. I asked for **proof** , Councillor, not an obviously faked set of tapes. Give me a few minutes and I could produce an equally convincing tape of Chritas selling us out to the Andromedans." He grins slyly. "Where's your proof, Councillor? Why should we believe you? You do control the Information Bureau. They'd do anything for you."

As they did for you and Servalan when you were in charge, thinks Chritas. Damn you, he curses, seeing that the same Councillors who were nodding in agreement with him just a few seconds ago now seem to be siding with Bercol. What will it take?

"Very well, Senator," he says, thinking furiously as he is speaking. "I will go along with your desperate delaying tactic. It turns out that there are people on Fontina of good will towards the Federation, who would prefer to see it come again under our protection, who do not agree with Servalan and Vedik that it should stay outside the Federation under his rule. It is such patriots who have cooperated with us in this investigation of her misdeeds. If I present you with one such ally so that you can cross-examine him, will that be proof enough?" He is almost shouting, having lost his cool for once. He realizes it, can't help himself.

Bercol realizes it also; the old man is smiling at him, mocking him! "Yes, Councillor, provided that he can back up what he says."

Chritas nods, stands, walks to a wall-comm unit. Nervously his fingers stab at the buttons, hitting the wrong ones at first. Finally, he reaches Baylin. He whispers as softly as he can, which is still rather loud in the circumstances.

"You must reach the Weasel, put him through to the Council Chamber in real time, understand?" he hisses. "Tell him to play along with me. I'll give him whatever he wants later, after we've won. Just get him to back me up for now, got it? Well?" And in his subordinate's pause, Chritas discovers real fear, for the first time in his life. "What's the matter?" he all but shouts.

"The Weasel has disappeared," says Baylin. "I can't make any contact with him. The whole network has gone dead. Trager's trying to find out what happened, but he's gonna need time. It's like there's nothing there." He pauses. "You there, boss? What do you want me to do?" Silence.

Chritas is inert, barely breathing. His face has turned white. His world has turned dark. He drops his hands to his sides. He slumps against the wall. Simes has leaped from his chair, gone to his leader's aid. Even so, Chritas collapses to the floor.

Pandemonium breaks out in the Council Chamber. Councillors and others are on their feet, straining to look at the unconscious man, yelling for information, yelling for help. Bodies surge for the exits, the guards unable to stop them. Bercol alone remains calm, sitting easily, smiling slightly, triumph shining on his sphinxlike face.

"Order, I say," croaks the Chairman, his voice unheard amid the uproar. "Come to order. Guards, enforce my command." But they can do nothing, they are too few and the panic-stricken crowd too many.

"Recess. The Council will enjoy a temporary recess." The Chairman is himself, in fact, as frightened as the rest. He is Chritas's man, he has cast his own fate with the Councillor. Wbat can have happened? What did Chritas hear that scared him senseless?

It is a long time until the Chamber is emptied. No one wants to leave, all are curious about Chritas's fate. Guards try, politely at first, more firmly at last, to shoo them out. Medics arrive, barred from Chritas by Simes's fierce protectiveness. He waits until the Councillor's own docs arrive. They are reluctant to move him until the Chamber is completely empty, which will take some long time to occur.

Finally, they are left alone, Chritas slumped against the wall in stunned silence, Simes weeping at his side, the Chairman staring at both, frightened at what he cannot even imagine. Outside. the crowd stands miffing about, wondering what is going on. Rumors fly throughout Government Dome. Chritas is being buried while he yet lives; for how long, no one knows.

Finally, only the questions remain. What has happened? What has gone wrong? And who has caused it?

 


	15. Part Fourteen

Glin is very fast. Avon can barely keep up with her as she sprints through the dark, wet city. Ahead of him she turns a corner. He does likewise, almost running into her in the narrow alley. "What are you doing?" he gasps.

"Lookin' to see if anyone's followin' us, dook. We're null, though. You ready?"

He shakes his head, as if casting off a bad dream. A pause. "Yes, of course. What do we do after we...kill Vedik? How do I contact my ship?"

The girl looks sideways at him. "What do I care, steel? That ain't my biz, is it? Go out to the port, find another ship. You got slick. I got you outa there, now you finish the hike. You take care of my getback like you promised. You want, I give you a freebie wiggle, but after that, we split. I gotta hike, copy? Now we're slippin' clock here, let's move!" Once again, she sprints off.

Avon's shoulders sag. Weary, but realizing he has no choice, he shoves after her.

It is a long trek, through many dark streets. Once or twice he nearly loses her. He is tempted to give it up, head back for the demolished bar and look for his teleport bracelet. Each time he lags too far behind, though, she comes looking for him. Her will, her fierce hatred, keeps him going, keeps him obedient. In his weakened condition, he finds it impossible to dominate her. He finds it impossible even to question her.

The section of town they are traversing is much worse than the Shade, darker, meaner, dirtier. It's almost devoid of people, it has a sterile, abandoned feel to it. The air seems somehow unbreathed, the streets unwalked, the dirt of inhuman origin. There is a primal, ancient atmosphere, as if it had been thrown up from the very earth of this planet in its current unholy state. The morbidity of this observation startles Avon and adds to his desperation and gloom.

He feels that he has never been in such a desolate, depressing place. Even those last days on Earth with Anna, shuttling through the desperate streets hoping not to be caught, hadn't seemed so dispiriting, so crushing. Where is the **Liberator,** he thinks idly. Why aren't they searching for him? He'd seen them teleport away, just before losing consciousness, but they wouldn't just desert him, would they? They're a team, after all. Vila would never let Tarrant abandon him, nor would Cally. Avon is sure of that. No he isn't. Yes he is.

He has no conception of how long he has been following Glin, except that it seems like a very long time, indeed. They have left behind that horrible section of the city and are now in a new district, still grim and forbidding, but less deathlike. The streets have lights, there is ground traffic, there are pedestrians. Glin has slowed down, too, she is taking care now not to be noticed. Avon provides good cover, as well as the necessary protection for a woman walking these streets alone at night.

Suddenly, they stop, ducking behind some refuse containers. Across the street is a large, windowless building. "That's it," Glin whispers. "Vedik lives in there."

Avon is astonished. "But it looks like a warehouse," he says. "Vedik is a wealthy man. Surely he'd live in a mansion."

The girl grins, her disgusting teeth trapping what little light filters through to them. "Yeah, it don't look like much, but that's just a monte. It's real nice inside."

For some reason, Avon is suspicious. "How would you know?" he asks. "A scruffy child like you would never get inside a crime kingpin's sanctuary."

Glin grimaces. "How do you think we get to work for the man, anyhow? He gives us all a personal test 'fore we hike the street for him, copy? Gotta know the users are gettin' good stuff, right? I been in there once." She grimaces again. "There's a rear inway, we'll use that. C'mon!" She grabs his hand and drags him after her.

Traffic is heavy on the broad street. Groundcars and drivables speed in both directions. There is no supercross. Avon wonders if she expects him to fly over. Suddenly, Glin darts into the speedstream. Avon, still in her grip, has no choice but to follow. The sound of screaming brakes assaults his ears and he closes his eyes, expecting at any minute to be pummeled into jelly. Then, with his heart pounding furiously, they are on the other side.

"What was that for?" he demands, amazed at how loud his voice is. He is still shaking. He is crushing her wrist in his hand.

"Leggo, you drainer!" she yelps. "I think you broke my wrist! Geez, you never pacmanned a street before? How else you breeze it? Whatta they teach you out in the Blaze?" She rubs her sore arm, suddenly a young girl again. Avon softens a little.

"I guess I'm a country boy," he says sardonically. "I'm not used to so much traffic. Well, that probably alerted every security guard in the place."

"Naah, they don't watch the street. Why should they? This place is like a fortress, you can't blast through those walls. Not with anything on this planet, that's for sure. 'Sides, Vedik owns this whole part of town, nothin' happens here he don't know about. That's why it's gotta be you, steel. He's got all kinds of guards and people an' they got long memories. 'F'I kill 'im, I won't live to see my next shit. You do it, **an'** get outa here maxifast, who's to know? Copy?" He nods.

"Dazzling," she mutters. "Skay, next part's tricky. How're you with locks?"

Avon is still trying to get his breath back. In his wasted condition, the long trek through the city has thoroughly drained him. "Well, I'm not an expert," he begins. "But I've recently been trained by an expert."

"Good enough. Gotta get us through the back door. Inside, take the first set of stairs, then turn left. He's prob'ly in his office."

"Bodyguards?" Avon asks.

She nods. "A bunch. Second raters, though. Prob'ly thinks nobody's got the guts to try. He's right, too. Crime on this planet, there's enough for everyone. I'll deal with them, you just go find Vedik."

"What if he's not in?"

"He's in. Trust me."

Avon is suddenly suspicious again. He grabs her. "Who are you working for, Glin? Why should I trust you? Why should you trust me?"

She squirms free after elbowing him in the gut. "No choice now, stud. You run off, I'll scream. You're a fugitive. So'm I, but I got somethin' to offer. I'll say you grabbed me, forced me to bring you here. You want out, fine. But after we deal with Vedik."

"Who are you working for?" Avon repeats, his voice low.

"Myself, I told you." Her eyes shine with anger. "He's treated me like waste for the last time. He ain't been too nice to you, either. That was his bar we were in, you know. He's the one had the blutes slag it. You cook him, there'll be people who'll be happy to help you get off planet. Other megacrimos. You run now, you'll never escape. Copy?"

"All right. But you go in first. And I want the gun." He grabs it from her hand. She snarls but offers no resistance. He prods her with it. Slowly, she edges down the alley beside Vedik's house. It is dimly lit, and filled with garbage. Perhaps the rich on Fontina disguise their fortune so as not to attract thieves or kidnapers or assassins. Avon has heard of that on other worlds.

They are walking very silently. The alley is longer than Avon expected. He can't believe that Vedik has no sensors, no traps out here. If it is true, that means that security will start with the house itself, and be even harder to trip. He wishes now that he had paid more attention to Vila in the past. A talented thief is hard to find, he once told Tarrant, and he himself isn't even an untalented one. Still, he has learned a little from three years of occasionally watching Vila at work with half an eye...it'll have to do.

At the rear of the building, a set of steps leads into a well in the ground. Glin points at the steps. Avon wonders if this is really the only entrance to the house, but obediently descends. The door seems ordinary enough, which makes him even more suspicious. According to Vila, such a portal is usually the hardest to neutralize. The less dangerous it looks, the more dangerous it actually is. So this door is probably a real killer.

On the other hand, it must have a failsafe, or some relatively easy way for friendlies to get in quickly. Again, according to Vila, the easiest way into any secured situation is to think and act like the person who designed it, or like the people it was designed for. There are ways to guard against that sort of attack too, like fingerprints and retina scans and perspiration monitors. Still, it's worth a try.

On the side of the well is a keypad. An ancient system, but not a useless one. Avon always carries a small electronic probe in his shoe. He removes it and applies one end to the keypad. A small cord leads from the probe to a tiny screen. As current flows, numbers begin appearing on the glowing display. After several seconds, he is satisfied. He climbs the steps.

"Glin," he whispers. "Look at these numbers. Got 'em?" She nods. "Good. Go down there and try them on that pad."

"Why me?" she asks harshly.

"Because you're going in first. In case this is a trap."

She snarls. "You're a real bastard, Avon."

"You want me to kill Vedik?" he asks. She nods. "Fine. Then you go first. Otherwise, I'm leaving."

The girl glowers at him. But she goes down the steps and keys in the numbers. Then she looks at him. He is implacable. She turns to the door and gingerly touches the handle. Then she turns it, very gently, very slowly. It opens. She pokes her nose inside, then withdraws it and nods to Avon. In a flash, he is down the steps and is prodding her along in front of him. Together, they enter the house.

They are in some sort of small, dark room. A vestibule, perhaps. Glin is whispering in his ear, pointing to something. "There's the stairs I tol' you about. Vedik's office is on the third floor. We're in the basement, so that's four flights up."

"Where are the bodyguards?" Avon asks, his voice as low as he can make it.

"Don' know," she replies. "I'll go look. You wait until you hear somethin', then you go after Vedik. Wait here." She is gone.

In the dark, Avon is having, not second thoughts about the whole business, or even third or fourth thoughts, but something closer to fifth or sixth. What has induced him to follow her here? It is not the promise he gave her, surely. Avon has never been a sucker for a pretty face, let alone the battered and drawn countenance that it is Glin's misfortune to sport. No, he feels that there is something wrong with him. Some weakness, something wan and hollow. His will has petered out, he is too susceptible to suggestion and command. It's as if he has become a robot, an automaton with no capacity for making decisions. And fighting it is only making it worse.

Avon shakes his head, tries to regroup. Suddenly, sounds of struggle make their way to his ear. He listens for a few seconds to the screams and cries, then begins to climb the stairs.

It is hard going, considering his condition. Before he has reached the top of the second flight, he is puffing, straining. Surely Vedik will be alarmed by the noise, he thinks, but that doesn't stop him. At the top of the third flight, he has to stop for a second to rest. Then he continues climbing.

At the third floor landing, Avon peers out into a blazing corridor. The lights hurt his eyes, so used to the dark has he become. He rubs them quickly, then draws the gun and cautiously edges out into the hallway. It is long, stretching away from him on either side, doors puncturing its smoothness here and there. From one of them emerges a tall, heavy man.

He is in a daze; he staggers and almost falls. Instantly, Avon is at his side, grabbing him, shoving him back into the room he had just left. The man offers no resistance; indeed, he scarcely seems capable of any action at all. He plumps into a chair, sits down hard, and stares at the floor apathetically.

Avon doesn't like being ignored. He doesn't like being an irrelevance. Especially to the man he has come so far to kill. But this stupor, whatever has caused it, will make the job easier. It also explains why Vedik didn't seem to notice the uproar below.

But what explains the stupor? Avon examines the man more closely. He lifts his head and looks directly into his filmy eyes. Is there something strange there? He raises the face directly to the overhead light and - yes! A very faint, lightly greenish cast. No doubt about it. Avon has seen this before, among extraordinarily rich, jaded, idle Alphas. Vedik uses Deadhead.

Deadhead! The most dangerous drug ever invented. A bizarre synthesis of chemical and parasite, it produces fantastic hallucinations, at the cost of isolating the user from reality. The parasite feeds off the electrochemistry of the user's brain; the more you take, the bigger the parasite gets and the more of the brain it takes over. Eventually, it overrides vital sections needed to control the body. You can die of heart failure, of a blockage of the nerves leading to your lungs, of a failure in your excretory system...or of many other, less pleasant physiological disruptions. And there's no cure. The parasite can't be killed. Not without killing the user.

Deadhead! Worse than Shadow, worse than LightBlind, worse even than Delta Dust. The high is more intense and it lasts longer. It's even worse than being a wirehead, who can, after all, always pull out the wire - maybe. But a Deadheader can't get rid of the parasite - not without killing himself. And he can't stop using the drug, or the parasite will digest what's left of his brain.

What would make Vedik use his own product? Curiosity? How could he function as a major crimo boss if he's a doper? Well, never mind. Avon has no time to waste. He also has no need to kill Vedik now. The drug will take care of that, and pretty soon, too, it seems. Avon is no pharmacologist, but a lifetime of infiltrating computer systems has given him a widely variegated knowledge of many odd areas. Anyway. Time to get the hell out of here.

He turns to leave. Suddenly, Glin is there. "Ya done it yet, Avon?" she gasps, out of breath. "Jeezak, he's still burnin'! You lunchmeat, what you wastin' time for? Skay, I'll zumb him!" She raises her own gun, undoubtedly taken from a now dead guard. Avon stops her. She stares at him. "Whatsamatter with you, chicken?" she mutters. "In love with him or somethin'? Lemme do him. We gotta get outa here. I deaded the guards, but there'll be more comin'."

He grabs here, thrusts her toward the moribund Vedik. "Look at him, Glin. He's a Deadheader. He's completely gone. It looks like he's taken a massive overdose. He'll probably be dead within hours. Somebody got here first."

Avon starts to pace. His face is dark, a frown distorting its features. "There's something not right here. There's no way we should have been able to get in so easily. There's no way you should have been able to deal with his guards by yourself. And then to find that the supposed victim is using Deadhead. I think I've been manipulated all along. I'm leaving."

He leaves the room. He heads down the corridor away from the stairway, seeking another means of departure. Behind him, from the room he just left, he hears a sound of energy discharge. Probably Glin has just shot Vedik, he thinks. Whatever else has been going on, she must have really wanted revenge on the vicelord.

Then, she runs up to him and grabs his hand. "I done it for ya, steel. Let's get outa here!" She pulls him toward a door. Inside is an elevator shaft. She pushes a button and it starts to plummet. Seconds later, the door opens. Glin drags Avon out. An alarm begins to buzz.

They are in a dim corridor, wide, tall-ceilinged. Wooden floor with a thin, narrow runner its only carpeting. The elevator opens onto one end. At the other end is a closed door leaking bright light from beyond.

Glin starts back into the elevator. But Avon has her wrist. "Where are you going?" he asks.

"Gettin' outa here," she cries, struggling to break free of him.

"Not so fast," he says. "I'm going to find out what's going on here. This way," he points down the corridor, toward the door at the end. He drags her with him.

"No, you moron!" Glin yelps, kicking and gouging at the Alpha tech. "I don' wanna go in there! I wanna get outa here!" But Avon is implacable, and unstoppable. He walks up to the door and pauses.

Whatever lies beyond the door is all lit up, very brightly, too, it seems. Light spills around the verges, wrapping the door in a pearly halo. Avon puts his hand on the knob. In one swift move, he opens the door and shoves Glin in first.

Inside, the light blazes. A shaft of liquid fire strikes Avon straight in the eyes, and he throws up his arms to shield his face. He hears Glin scream, and turns to try to look at her. She is kneeling on the floor, her arms in front of her as if trying to ward off a foe.

Suddenly, her body is a spurt of flame, as though it has been flash heated. A charred crisp crumbles to the floor. The lights dim. Avon stares in horror as men in black uniforms seize him. Then, he feels a crushing blow behind his head and knows no more. Just before he falls, though, he seems to register, feel more than see, a presence, a shape, a figure that seems familiar... Avon passes out.

 


	16. Part Fifteen

And comes to. Head throbbing. Eyes aching. Body a wreck. Throat dry. Arms and legs bound. Something prying into his forehead. Lying on a hard couch. Light and color in the room. Eyes focusing. A woman standing, looming above him, smiling. Servalan smiling at him. Servalan!

"Hello, Avon," she purrs. "Welcome back. A change of my plans, having you aboard, but I'm coping. In fact, I'm almost **glad** it's you instead of him. **He** may be more useful to me, but **you're** more fun."

Avon groans. Finds he is spitting up blood. "Fun, Servalan? Your thugs have been having fun with me, I see. What happened?"

The Federation President smiles even broader. "Don't you remember? You started a riot in a bar. Trying to escape, you were knocked unconscious. Your friends abandoned you to me. Oh yes, they left you behind." She stares at him, the smile changing to a sardonic grin. "Go ahead and scoff, it won't change anything. **Liberator** broke orbit twelve hours ago, just before my ship arrived. We weren't able to follow, it was moving away too fast. They took **him** with them, you know, and left you for me. I should be disappointed, but I look on it as a fair trade, you for him. You probably don't feel that way, though."

The thought crosses Avon's mind that she is lying, that something happened between the riot outside the bar and his awakening inside the prison. Something he can't quite remember, but something that didn't happen just as she said. Was he abandoned, left behind? Just like that? It doesn't seem like Tarrant or Cally, but...why can't he remember?

"Then you tried to escape from that vile holding cell," Servalan continues. "Not that I blame you. I'm sorry about that. I gave no orders to have you held. But they didn't know who you were at the time, you see, and Glin didn't tell them, of course, and then it took me time to get there from the spaceport. I'm just glad you weren't killed in the riot at that pub. It would have been irksome to come all this way and not get anything at all for my trouble. Even if it is only you, and not who I really came here for. But you're forgiven, since you didn't die." She smiles, as if she has really done a generous, magnanimous thing.

"Thank you for killing Vedik for me, by the way," she continues. "Oh, yes," she says, smiling at his astonishment, "I'm grateful. Not that it was my idea, though. It should have been, he knew too much. I wasn't thinking that far ahead, though. I'm glad Glin was. Bright little thing, wasn't she? As long as you were available, why not have you take care of him for her? Yes, Glin was really working for me all along, greedy little slut. Fontina won't miss her."

Avon shuts his eyes in pain. Manipulated from start to finish, he has been. Nothing was as he thought it would be, told the others it would be. At least they got away, he didn't get them killed. Yet. If they're free, they can come back for him. They **will** come back for him. He won't believe that they abandoned him. They wouldn't do that to him.

Must stall, get his head back, then try to find out what really happened. "As long as you didn't get **him** , you **lost** , Servalan," he hisses. "I'm unimportant." He doesn't really mean it, but he hopes she'll think so.

"So modest, Avon," she says. "So atypical." Her voice takes on an unpleasant edge. "Don't try to fool me, you bastard. After what you've done to me and my plans this past year, I'm actually **glad** it was you instead of him. I'll get him soon, anyway. And then I'll have it all. Everything I've ever wanted. In the meantime, what shall I do with you?" She stares at him like he's a fresh fish in the market. She strokes his side with a long finger, enjoying his distress.

The computer tech squirms under her scrutiny, her touch. His face is flushed, he feels feverish. His wrists burn; the straps are too tight. "I don't care, Servalan. I won't be here long enough. They'll come back for me, you know. They won't leave me here."

Aha! she thinks. A key. A lever. Use it right, and he'll crumble. "That's what you think, Avon dear. I've got twenty pursuit ships following them, the best there are. Even if they escape, they won't be able to get back here fast enough to rescue you. Assuming they want to." She chuckles, a throaty, unpleasant laugh.

"Oh no, Avon. I've got you right where I've always wanted you. All I have to do is bring you back to Earth and display you as my prize capture." But I'm going to keep you here for awhile, she thinks. Let you sweat. Let you think they're coming back, so that when they don't, you'll be even more devastated.

"I've been ahead of you all along, Avon, for once," she chirps. "I baited a trap for you, with that bitch Glin, and you walked right into it. What's the matter? Getting soft, Avon?"

A flash of pain crosses the tech's eyes. He coughs harshly, bringing up blood. It collects in a pool just beneath his chin. "How did you know I'd be here to bait a trap for?" His voice is strained, weak.

Servalan smiles, enjoying his distress. "Do you really want to know? I'm not sure I want you to. But maybe I **should** tell you. Serve you right for all the trouble you've caused me. It was a little something I got from Ensor. Remember him? You left it behind when you took Orac. Left us behind, too, which was stupid of you. We went back to search Ensor's quarters, see if there was anything else worth taking. We were right.

"Orac wasn't the only thing Ensor was working on. We found something called Trace. An intelligent tracking device. Very **very** small. I planted it on you the last time we met. I figured it would come in handy to know where you were. I **always** want to know where you are, Avon. Though I never expected to find you so soon. And on Fontina, too. Avon, you shouldn't have made my job so easy!" she purrs.

Avon glares. "But how did you know I'd be in that bar?"

"I didn't, you idiot. Trace isn't very accurate from deep space. I only knew you were on Fontina, which is what I told Glin. She was looking for **him** , just as you were. I hadn't described you, she couldn't stay on the line that long. But she recognized you in the bar - an offworlder looking for someone and willing to pay a lot of money for him made her suspicious. After you were taken away by the local police, she contacted me and I told her to bring you to me. You were so easy to prime for that, you know. I was very surprised. You haven't always responded so quickly to a pretty face." Avon looks daggers at her for that, but Servalan just smiles.

"You were waiting for me in that room," he says, his voice raspy and harsh. "What if I hadn't entered?"

"Oh, you would have eventually," she says cheerfully. "There was no other way out of the house. You just spared us having to hunt you down, that's all."

"How did you get Vedik to take that dose of Deadhead? And what were you doing in his house?"

"Deadhead?" Servalan seems genuinely puzzled. "Vedik was using Deadhead? I had nothing to do with that. I wouldn't even know where to get any. I don't believe it, either. When I last spoke to him, he was lucid. Conniving, greedy, and untrustworthy, but lucid. He had other enemies besides me, you know. I was here as his guest. It wouldn't do for the President of the High Council of the Terran Federation to be involved in the murder of a prominent politician of a neutral planet."

"Especially one who was on her payroll," Avon interjects.

"Exactly." Servalan smiles sweetly again. "But now I can investigate his murder and discover that it was the act of a known terrorist, a wanted criminal, a dangerous revolutionary. By bringing the dastardly killer of Consul Vedik to justice, I can attract the attention and support of other powerful figures on Fontina. They may even agree to accept the Federation's protection so that this sort of outrage doesn't occur again. So you see, Avon, you've done me an enormous favour. However, you needn't expect me to repay you in kind."

"I never expect you to be kind, Servalan," Avon says, trying to rile her. But she ignores his lame witticism. She stares at him again, as if examining a piece of meat in a market.

"Now, what should I do with you?" she muses. "I'm quite angry with you, you know, for the way you ruined my plan to start a war between Teal and Vandor. They would have made such a lovely pair of conquests. So strategically well placed. So many nice mineral deposits. Such large fleets. We could have rebuilt the Federation much more quickly with their navies added to ours.

"And then you came along. Yes, Avon, I'm really quite upset with you. I think I shall have to punish you severely for your interference. What do you think?"

A buzzer sounds. Servalan turns to a wall comm unit, listens to it, speaks softly into it. "You'll be interested in this, Avon. I know you don't believe me when I tell you your crewmates abandoned you to me. But we've found evidence that will convince even a dedicated cynic like yourself."

"Found? Manufactured, more likely." Avon tries to sound defiant, can only muster a petulant whisper. His weakness disturbs him. Why can't he think clearly?

"See for yourself," Servalan replies. She snaps her fingers. Instantly, two burly guards are at Avon's sides, shifting his interrogation board to an inclined position. Avon finds himself facing a large screen. Another snap of the Supreme fingers, and the screen flickers to life.

He is looking at a scene he knows only too well. Though dark, it is easily recognizable. The square outside the Spacedog's Nightmare. Hordes of people fleeing the burning building, the shifting yellow its flames the only illumination for this pocket inferno. Riot police in blue, spacers in every color of the spectrum, criminals and other lowlifes dressed mostly in dark, and...

In shock. Avon recognizes himself, lying unconscious. Surrounded by police, who have just dragged him from an alleyway. A hovervan is approaching.

So are a gang of familiar strangers. Avon dies to clear his vision, tries to make out who they are. Could it be? Yes! Tarrant and Dayna, with Cally not too far behind them. 'They' are staring helplessly at 'him' as the hovervan stops near him. They approach cautiously. Warily. Without any noticeable enthusiasm.

"No! It didn't happen that way!" Avon says desperately. His face is flushed. He is gasping for breath. Servalan smiles sweetly.

"The camera can't lie, Avon," she replies.

"Where did you get these?" he asks, teeth clenched.

"Just watch. See what your so-called friends did for you."

On the screen, Dayna is struggling with Tarrant. Obviously, she wants to rescue Avon, while Tarrant is trying to restrain her. Their voices are faint, but barely audible.

"He's not worth it!" Tarrant is yelling. "He told us he wouldn't stop to save us? Why should we risk our lives for him?"

"Tarrant is right," says Cally - Cally? - soothingly. "They've got him. There's nothing we can do for him. He wouldn't want us to die vainly just for him."

Oh yes I would, thinks Avon. At least you could try!

Dayna is sobbing. "You're right, we're too late. At least we've got **him** ," she says, pointing at something lying next to her.

"Let's get out of here," says Tarrant. He raises his wrist to his mouth. "Vila, bring us up." Just then, the Avon on the ground on the screen raises his head, stares at his crewmates as they start to disappear. He shouts at them as they fade.

NO! the real Avon screams in his head, don't leave me! But before his eyes, and before those of his image, they are gone. Both Avons collapse weakly, limp from exhaustion, drenched with sweat. But the guards won't let the real Avon alone. They prop him up, force him to watch the screen.

Where, with contemptuous ease, the blue-clad riotcops pick up the unconscious Avon and toss his body into the hovervan. It speeds off.

The scene changes. Black, speckled with light. Avon recognizes the view: space, as seen in the viewscreen of a ship. Far off in the distance, a flash of light moving much faster than anything natural. The screen closes in on that flash, zooming in for a magnified look. The pinpoint of light grows, becomes a tiny squiggle, then a three-pointed pin, then...the **Liberator**.

"No! It's a trick!" Avon yells. "That's stock footage, you're trying to snow me."

As if in answer to his challenge, the screen rotates, swerves away from the fast vanishing **Liberator** , to reveal a planet 180 degrees away. Fontina.

Avon slumps back against the couch, drenched with sweat, blood rushing in his head.

"Trick, Avon?" Servalan purrs. "Think anyone on this planet could fake that up so quickly? Especially with **Liberator** gone and you in prison **before** my ship made planetfall?" Her eyes mock him.

Avon scarcely hears her. His attention is glued to the screen, which shows the **Liberator** steadily and outdistancing the Federation pursuit ship, growing smaller, ever smaller, fading back to a pinpoint, then finally to...

The screen goes black. But not before the words 'Fontina Planetary Security - Special Section - Doc. 43447-GBF334 - TOP SECRET' flash momentarily before his eyes.

"Well, Avon?" Servalan says, her voice sounding very satisfied with itself. "Think I could make up something like that?"

Avon tries again to clear his head. The blood is pounding, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. "Where did you get that tape?"

She shakes her head. "No, Avon, not so fast. I'm not just going to tell you something that important. You have to earn it first. I think I'll let you watch it again, just for fun. Shall I do that?" Without waiting for his reply, she nods to someone Avon can't see. The screen flashes brightly again.

And as much as Avon doesn't want to watch it, he can't help himself. There he is, lying there helplessly. And there **they** are, dismissing him with insipid words about how he wouldn't want them to risk themselves for him. The hell he wouldn't! So what if he wouldn't risk himself for them? Can't they see that this is different, that **he** is different?

He screams at them, begs them not to leave him. He sees himself wake up, stare in misery at where they no longer are, collapse, get dumped in a truck like a sack of synthomeal. Sees the ship flee what is obviously Fontina. Sees the validating security codes.

The tape is on a loop. Obviously, Servalan is finding it so entertaining that she insists on watching it again and again. And since a movie is more fun with company, she wants Avon to share in the experience with her.

Finally, it is over. The screen blanks out, stays blank. The guards lower Avon's table. Servalan looms over him.

"Enjoy that? No, I don't suppose you would have. I, on the other hand, found it wonderful. It shows what I always suspected, Avon. Your crew never liked you. No wonder they were after **him**. And as soon as they found him, they abandoned **you**. I can't blame them at all. Of course, I wouldn't have done that. Just as I won't let you go now, Avon. Not that that will comfort you.

"Now. You wanted to know where I got that tape. As a matter of fact, it was supplied me by a local personage, a VIP, you might say. They call him 'The Weasel.' Odd name. Well deserved, though."

Avon laughs, faintly. "The Weasel? I thought you were working with Vedik. He and the Weasel hate each other. Besides, the Weasel is Chritas's ally. Why would he help you out?"

For a second, the Supreme Commander is mildly surprised. Then she recovers. "Well. I should have realized that Orac would fill you in on Fontinan politics. Of course the Weasel was helping Chritas, but why should that stop him making contact with me? You don't think anyone would actually be **loyal** to Chritas, do you? The Weasel isn't stupid, he knows I'm likely to win in the end. Why shouldn't he try to switch sides? When he offered me this tape, of course I accepted it I had no real use for Vedik, after all. I didn't order his death, in fact - Glin did that on her own - but I'm not really displeased by it. I'd have had him killed soon anyhow." She smiles again. "You just saved me some time, that's all. Don't expect any gratitude, though. Now, what shall I do with you?"

Avon turns his head. Stares at the wall. He can't breathe. And he can't hear her. He **won't** listen to her. He is trembling. The blood pounds in his head. The chemicals drip into his arm.

She is going on, prattling about handing him over to Interrogation, or maybe giving him to the police battalion his friends had shot up. Sending him back to Cygnus Alpha or putting him in a hard labor camp. She sounds so joyful. "I might even have you executed for murdering Consul Vedik," she chortles.

He hardly hears a thing. Something is interfering with his thoughts. He can't concentrate. But one thought is building and building. They've left him! They've really left him! He was in danger, could see them and knew they could see him, and they did nothing to help! He yelled to them to help him and they ran away. He knows they heard him, yet they teleported out as if he weren't there. They just skipped, saved their own skins. Left him behind. Left **him**. Avon blinks back tears. Shuts his eyes in agony.

Servalan stops talking. Are those tears she's seen? Marveling, she touches his face. It is wet. And he is clearly breathing very fast. She checks the medscanners. They show a greatly elevated heart rate. He is terrified.

Servalan is astonished. She's never seen Avon afraid before.

It was worth losing **him** for this, she thinks. Oh yes, worth losing **him** indeed.

 


	17. Part Sixteen

Darkness. Confusion. Pain. These are the limits of his world. He doesn't like limits. He's been trying to escape them, to conquer them, his entire life. He is above limits, beyond them.

Somewhere, someplace he can't tell, a low sound hums. Voices? What are they talking about? He hates not knowing what is going on. Despite the nausea welling up everywhere he can sense, he strains to listen.

"I think he's coming around. The sensors indicate an increase in mental activity." A female voice. coming from behind him.

"I told you he was faking being unconscious." Another female, younger, harder.

"Do you blame him? I wouldn't want to face us." A soft male voice.

"You might as well open your eyes," says a fourth voice, also male. "Or we might have to rouse you more forcefully."

He opens his eyes. Looming above him is a tall, curly-haired man, staring with a combination of interest and anger. The man's gaze is almost as sardonic as his own. He blinks.

"Hello, Carnell," says Tarrant.

The former Federation puppeteer blinks again. He recognizes the man from his pictures. Del Tarrant! Pilot First Class. Fleet deserter, smuggler, pirate. Terrorist. Murderer. He must be on board the **Liberator**. Obviously, they rescued him from the riot. He tries to move, can't. He is strapped to a couch. Arms pinioned. Limits.

There are three other people staring at him, one of them from behind the couch. Two women, one white, one black. The white woman is Cally, he thinks. The little one must be Vila. One of them he doesn't recognize. How odd. I've never thought of them as real people before, just as elements in my equations. The one I was working out for Servalan. And the other...

"You got away from Fontina," he says. "Where's Avon?"

"Where you left him," the unfamiliar black woman says. "A nice little present for Servalan,, no doubt." She glowers at him. He shudders. Hate is out of his experience. Most personal emotions are.

"Look," he stammered, "I didn't ask you to come looking for me. I don't know what made Avon think I'd be any use to you or that I'd be interested in helping you. I used to **work** for Servalan, after all. I'm no rebel." They seem unimpressed.

The tall man breathes in. "You are now. If you want to stay alive, that is. I'm Del Tarrant, by the way. I'm in command." The others glare at him, but say nothing. He grins. "You know Vila and Cally, by sight at least. I gather. This is Dayna Mellanby. Servalan killed her father. She killed my brother. You're going to help us against her, or..."

"And the first thing you can help us do is to get Avon back," Cally cuts in. "You probably know more about how Servalan thinks than anybody else. What would persuade her to surrender Avon?"

"Probably his funeral," Carnell smirks. His mind is racing. "Look, tell me why you hunted me down? What do you want from me? Why me, of all people? I should think you'd have been trying to find Blake."

"We did try to find Blake," Cally replies. "We haven't been able to. Even Orac can't find him."

"Orac?" queries Carnell. "Oh yes, Ensor's little toy. I'm not surprised. Ensor never did understand people. His computer wouldn't be able to, either. **I** could have found Blake for you. If I'd wanted to."

Dayna swears. "Tarrant, we're wasting time. If he won't help us, I say we return him to Servalan. I'm sure he'd love to face her. I know she wants to see him." She smiles happily at Carnell, enjoying his shudder.

"You still haven't answered my question," Carnell states. "What do you want with me? A failed puppeteer can't be much use to a revolution."

Cally comes around from behind his couch. She looks pained, nervous. Her voice trembles as she spoke. "Avon was getting desperate. He can't run this ship by himself much longer. He needed help. He didn't feel the rest of us were enough."

"Cally!" Dayna cries, genuinely shocked. She grabs the Auron's arm. "How do you know all this?"

The Auron woman shakes free from Dayna's grasp. She stares down at the deck. "Avon...talks to me. Sometimes. Not often, and not for long. But he tells me things. And I can guess the rest." The others are shocked and furious. She looks at them in silent pleading. "I'm the only one who doesn't want something from him! Well, who else can he trust? Vila relies on him, which he hates. Dayna, you love him, and Tarrant, you want his command. How can he talk to any of you?"

Dayna smolders, her eyes trying to blast Cally down. It's true, but she has thought nobody else had noticed. As if she is ashamed of her feelings. Damn Cally for mentioning it!

The others are equally embarrassed. Vila speaks up first. "That still doesn't explain what we were doing at Fontina, Cally. If you knew about Avon's plans, you should have told us."

"You certainly should have," Tarrant snaps. "Your loyalty should be to the ship, not to Avon."

"The Rebellion is failing," Cally whispers. "Avon is no strategist, he realizes that. He needs someone who can take the long view, really think things out. The way Blake used to. He was hoping to find Blake, but he is now convinced that Blake is dead. So he decided that you were the next best thing."

If she'd thrown a live grenade in their midst, Cally couldn't have upset the others more. Tarrant stomps away, only to stomp back. "So. Avon wanted his Blake back, did he? The rest of us weren't good enough for him, is that it? Needed his little tin god. I'm almost **glad** we left him behind."

"Tarrant!" Cally cries. "How can you say that? Avon is a member of the crew. He has been a valued part of the revolution. Not trusting us is not the worst thing he could do."

"Is running away?" asks Dayna with a sneer. The others all start talking at the same time.

Carnell feels satisfied within. He has diverted their attention away from him, gotten them bickering amongst themselves. The less they think about him, the better. He has to be very subtle about his next moves.

"This is getting us nowhere," Cally says. "We should be figuring out what we do next."

"Simple," says Dayna. "We go and rescue Avon. We make **him** help us."

"How can I help you?" Carnell asks.

"You've been on Fontina," says Tarrant. "You know the planet. You know Servalan. And you're a puppeteer. So you can think of something. And if you don't, we'll trade you for him. Understand?"

"Why would she give him up for me?" Carnell asks. "I'm hardly the master criminal he is. I've never even been profiled on **The Federation's Ten Most Wanted** threevee program. I doubt Servalan considers me as valuable as him."

He looks at them slyly. "Besides, are you sure you really **want** him back? Cally's right, you're better off with me. I'd be much better at planning your little Rebellion than Avon ever was. I might even do it, just as an amusement. As an academic exercise. To see if I **could** do it. Which I could, of course.

"You know, I'm not surprised that Avon came looking for me. Actually, I'm surprised that it took him so long to do it. I expected him to come after me as soon as I heard that Blake was missing. I'm a bit miffed about that, in fact. I'm usually more accurate in my predictions, especially about people I know."

Tarrant has had enough. "Look, you shut up about Avon. He's a member of the crew and we want him back. We might just give you back to Servalan. Sort of a trade."

Suddenly, something burrowing at the back of Cally's mind asserts itself. "Avon knows you, doesn't he?" she asks. "And you just said that you know him. But how? We only discovered your role in the Imipak affair long after it was over. From Orac. We never met you during it."

Vila's eyes widen. "That's right!" he says, drawing out the last word. "I never thought about that. Cally, remember Avon said Carnell had always been on his mind? What did he mean by that?" They all stare at Carnell. Tarrant swaggers over to him, arms on his hips, sneer on his face.

"Well?" he demands. "Care to tell us how you know Avon?"

Carnell meets Tarrant's gaze evenly. He feels very confident. "You mean you don't know?" he asks, with a little trace of his old sardonicism. "He never told you?"

"Told us what?" Cally asks, genuine puzzlement in her eyes.

Carnell chuckles softly. "Avon and I were at school together," he says. He grins at their astonishment. "That's right, we were classmates at the Institute for Psychostrategy. Roommates, even, our first year. That didn't work, I can tell you. Can you imagine what it's like to live with that cold fish? Yes, I suppose you can."

Vila shakes his head. "I don't believe it. Avon a puppeteer? He'd be the worst one in history. Besides, the Federation never lets puppeteers go. They also don't let borderline psychopaths into that institute."

Carnell's grin gets even broader. "You're almost right, Vila. He **was** terrible. I finished first in the class, he didn't even graduate. Beginning of final year he tried to fix a program governing our class assignments. They caught him and threw him out. He's lucky he didn't go to prison then. Blake wasn't around to rescue him." Carnell laughs out loud. "They should never have let him into the Institute, of course. How can a puppeteer absolutely hate all humanity the way Avon does?"

Cally lowers her eyes. "That's not fair. Avon does not hate all humanity. He merely finds some of it too difficult to deal with, that's all." She stares at the others. "Avon's your friend! Don't you see what he's trying to do? He wants to keep us from going to rescue Avon."

Tarrant snorts. "He doesn't have to do anything to keep **me** from going back. Still, it does sound crazy. Avon a puppeteer? From what you've told me, Blake was better at manipulating you than Avon has ever been."

"Well," says Dayna, "there's a simple way of checking it out. Orac!" she commands. "Was Kerr Avon ever a student at the Institute for Psychostrategy?"

"Oh, come on," Vila objects. "Avon would never let us get that kind of personal information on him from Orac. He'll have all kinds of passwords and other blocks on it."

*Negative, Vila Restal,* shrills the supercomputer. *Avon did not place inhibitors on this information. I assume it never occurred to him that you might ask about it. The records are not extensive, in any case. Yes, apparently Kerr Avon did attend the Federation Institute for Psychostrategic Training for two years, beginning when he was age eighteen. He was sent down for tampering with the school's computer system. He might not have graduated in any case, as his grades were barely passing. His evaluations note his extreme brilliance, also his lack of interpersonal skills, his great interest in machine intelligences, and his amoral tendencies.* The computer seems almost smug about tattling on Avon.

*The record also points out that he did not want to attend the Institute at all, but went only to please his great uncle, the famous Benn Trager Avon, who had founded it. He would have preferred going to the Federation Academy of Cybernetics and Information Science, which he did indeed transfer to after being dismissed from the Psychostrategy Institute. There he was an unqualified success, breaking all records for performance and graduating in two years instead of the usual five. The rest you know.*

They are all silent for several seconds, digesting the astounding revelation. "All right," Tarrant says finally, "so you went to school together. So what? That doesn't change things here. Either you join us or we hand you back over to Servalan."

Carnell looks at him for a few seconds. He might even be considering Tarrant's ultimatum. Then he smiles. "Well, under the circumstances, I suppose I have no choice. It would seem that the Rebellion has just recruited itself a puppeteer."

Tarrant returns the puppeteer's stare. He smiles, a thin cold stretching of lips. "Good. Let's get back to Fontina."

With Cally helping Carnell along, they head for the flight deck.

 


	18. Part Seventeen

Even with the air-conditioners at maximum, Servalan feels warm. Or perhaps it's just excitement. For the first time, she has really triumphed over Avon. Ruined him, perhaps. Although she hopes not. She wants him as he **is**...well, almost. Still Avon, only obedient. Perhaps those are incompatible ends. She shrugs.

She is standing over his couch, staring at the bound computer tech, fascinated by his obvious distress. He has passed out, but is anything but peaceful. The monitors are practically falling behind in trying to record his heartbeat, his respiration, other responses. Her tame medics are whispering to themselves that the man is either running a marathon in his sleep or else he's terrified all but out of his sanity. Her terribly sharp hearing picks up that last comment and she smiles.

All will be hers, she thinks. She has lost **him** , but she has gained Avon. Finally and completely. It is clear that Avon believes his crewmates abandoned him; this will make it much easier for her to recruit him...to **seduce** him into joining her. Side by side, where he has always belonged. He turned her down once; she won't let him do that again.

This time he will join her - or she'll kill him.

Together they will rule the galaxy. She has the ambition and drive, he the skills and focus needed to dominate, to direct. Both have the passion to take what is available instead of waiting to acquire it, to be given it. His petty fascination with rebellion is just a pose, a charade, she is sure. Offered a choice, a **true** choice, between her and Blake, she is certain that she knows what Avon will select.

The buzz startles her, shatters her reverie. Angered, she turns toward the wall-communicator, slaps the enabling button. "Yes?" she says in unconcealed annoyance.

The mutoid communicator is nervous, but resolute. "Transmission from Earth, Madame President," it mumbles. "Priority Absolute Zero."

Servalan is startled. The highest possible priority, to be used only when her own safety is at stake. Only three people besides herself have the codes needed to initiate such a transmission... Imperiously, her annoyance and daydreaming about Avon forgotten, she steels herself. "Divert to this terminal, my ears only," she orders.

"Madame President?" It is Dalbeen, her administrative aide. What in hell can he possibly want?

"Yes, Dalbeen, what is it?" she asks in her "Superior but Neutral" voice, the one that implies that this better be important - or else.

"Madame President, I-I've j-just left the Council Chamber. They're they're - "

"They're **what** , Dalbeen?" She is growing impatient with him and his stammer. At first it was rather charming - and then, she hadn't been interested in him for his speaking voice, anyhow. Now it's becoming damned aggravating.

"The Council - they're - they're voting to **impeach** you, ma'am. Senator Bercol and I tried to stop them, but Chritas - he-he was **forcing** them to vote against you. I left the Chamber to warn you. They're going to **arrest** you. Try you for **treason**. Probably arrest Bercol and me, too. What are we going to **do**?" His voice is trailing upward into hysteria.

He has asked a good question, she thinks. What **are** we going to do. What am **I** going to do? Need more information.

"Treason, Dalbeen?" Her voice reflects not a whit of the fear she is feeling. Good, mustn't rattle the troops. First lesson from Command School. "What do they say I've done? Come on, man, be a soldier! Don't keep your commander waiting."

Dalbeen responds to that whip in her voice. "Chritas has charged you with dereliction of duty, with lying to the Council, with interfering in Fleet deployment, and with unauthorized dealings with an alien government. He found out you weren't in the War Room. I'm sorry, Madame President, we tried to defend you." His voice cracks.

Damn! she curses inwardly. How did Chritas discover my absence? My cover was perfect! Somebody sold me out...somebody who's going to wish his **grandparents** had never been born!

"Very well, Dalbeen, I'm sure you did your best. I want you to find out who voted against me and who for me, all right? Then stall them as much as you can about where I am now. Can you do that?"

He sniffles. "Yes, I think so. When will you be back?"

Fool, she thinks savagely. Soft weakling. Although not always so soft. But **that** will be over now. I have Avon.

"As soon as I can. I'm almost finished here. Now listen, Dalbeen, I've accomplished what I came here to do. I'll be back soon in triumph, and Chritas and his minions will be dead men. Mutoid fodder." She knows that inexperienced politicians like Dalbeen love a bit of rough military talk. Makes them feel like vicarious **men**. "All you have to do is be brave without me and withstand them. It won't be much longer. All right?"

"Yes, of course, Servalan," he says, his voice much firmer. "I'd do...anything for you. You know that."

Yes, she thinks. Pity that.

She closes the communication without a further word to her subordinate. Turning, she paces the small interrogation room, without even a thought for the unconscious captive bound to the table. Pondering the new situation, the dangers, the opportunities. The odds.

It is clear, she thinks, that she has seriously underestimated Chritas. The man is completely untrustworthy and underhanded, to strike at her when she isn't around to defend herself, but he definitely has guts and imagination. Unprincipled and nervy and brilliant. A flash of anger floods through her for a millisecond. indignation that anyone should dare to move against her; then, she is once again her old imperturbable self. She has, after all, dealt with threats more dangerous than this many times in the past.

First of all, she reasons, she must not leave Fontina without a genuine achievement. Merely capturing Avon isn't enough any longer; she must also acquire **him**. That means her pursuit ships must find and capture the **Liberator**. Which would be a masterful coup in and of itself. She must also plot to deliver Fontina into the Federation's ambit. With Vedik dead, that shouldn't be all that difficult to bring about. She must try to make contact with the Weasel and find out what his price will be for an alliance. A very, very short-term alliance.

"Ma'am." It is the captain of her cruiser.

"Pursuit squadron commander reporting. **Liberator** has evaded capture and is returning to Fontina."

" **Returning**?" For once, she doesn't even remark on the failure of the pursuit squadron to carry out its orders - a failure that would usually forfeit the commander's rank, if not his life. But so great is her astonishment at the rebel ship's return - which will do nothing but make her own success much much easier - that she for once lets a dereliction pass by.

"Yes, ma'am, according to our sensors. At very high speed, too. What are your orders?" Good man, that, she thinks. As obedient as a mutoid, without the lack of personality or the...unpleasant behavior. Calm as the dead, too, nothing fazes him.

What **are** her orders? Mustn't let the **Liberator** discover her in orbit around the planet. She'll have to go down to the planet. Yes, and look for the Weasel. Probably won't be too hard to find. With Vedik dead, the crimelord is almost certainly trying to consolidate his own new power. But what to do with Avon while she searches? Can't leave him here, the crew might talk. Best to stash him someplace safe, come back for him at her leisure. Someplace safe...and dark and uncomfortable and totally humiliating. She knows just the place.

With joy in her heart, she gives the necessary commands.

 


	19. Part Eighteen

From the flight deck, Fontina seems ever so far away; a tiny bluish dot barely distinguishable from the speckling stars girdling it. Yet it is closer than it seems, for space is a strange place. **Liberator** is bearing down on the planet with astounding speed. Before any of her crew can fully figure out what to do next, they will be there. They'll have to do **something** , whether or not they've figured out exactly what.

They have lost their pursuit. Twenty ships - twenty! An entire Federation Fleet! - dogged their path for hours, forcing them to flee further and further away, always away, from Fontina. Forced them to expend valuable energy in defending themselves, keeping the shields on and the neutron blasters firing. It has occurred to Tarrant that the Federation was using conservative tactics in this battle. If they'd stationed a force some distance from Fontina and then run the **Liberator** into it, they'd have sandbagged them.

They didn't do it. **Liberator** not only outguns anything the Federation has, it outruns it, too. Plus they have Tarrant on their side, the best pilot in the business - his story, at any rate. Still, he's pretty damn good, breaking off the vector away from Fontina and reversing course, straight back **into** the pursuit, scattering it with blazing blasters and pulsing plasma bolts, then heading right for Fontina before any of the Fed ships can regroup. A clear victory for Tarrant, yes sir.

From the flight deck, nothing is clear. Tarrant is still flying the ship manually, perhaps to impress their guest, the puppeteer Carnell, with his undoubted skill. Dayna is ostentatiously playing with her gun, probably for the same reason. Vila is casting nervous glances at all three of them, presumably not caring what the puppeteer thinks. Cally is edgy, shaken by recent events, afraid for all of them. There's more to this than we think, she is certain; the refrain keeps repeating in her mind, fear for the future preventing her from concentrating on the present.

Only Carnell seems unconcerned, even amused by the whole situation.

As the ship draws nearer and nearer to its destination, the tension builds. For the second time, the imminent presence of Fontina casts a pall of gloom and silence over the flight deck. Cally can't help sensing something, something almost palpable, a definite nimbus of foreboding, of dread, of disaster.

"I say, Carnell. What are you going to do when this is all over? If you can't rescue Avon, I mean?"

Tarrant glares at him. "That **isn't** a possibility. We'll get him back."

"Of course you will. I rather thought, though, that the reason he was searching for me was so that he could leave you in my oh-so capable hands."

"That's not completely true," says Cally. "It was so he could leave if and when he ever wanted to. He never said he was actually going to do it."

"Hmm." Carnell nods. "Still, you ought to be thinking of something to do later, however this turns out."

"Got any ideas?" Vila asks lazily.

"As a matter of fact, I have. Something I discovered while trying to deflect one of Servalan's scans of my actions."

Dayna looks at him. "Yes, that's something I've been wanting to ask you about. You used to work for Servalan, according to Avon. Why did you run away?"

Carnell flushes. "I didn't exactly 'run away,' you know. Well, if I did, I had a very good reason."

"Which was?" the young woman insists.

"The same as yours. She was after my head, and not for what was inside it. She blamed me for the foul-up on Coser's planet. It wasn't really my fault - the information she gave me was faulty - but try telling her that. So I took off before she got back to Space HQ. I've been on the run ever since. But I still have my sources in the Service, and I've sometimes touched base with them for help. And I found something out that you should know about."

Tarrant regards him with equal measures of curiosity and skepticism. "All right. We're listening."

Carnell returns his stare with an equally penetrating one of his own. His very light blue eyes seem to be shining. "Current Federation strategy is to find all the planets that broke free after the Andromedan War and force them to reaffiliate. The problem is, though, they don't have enough ships to make the strategy work. That's what Servalan was doing at Teal and Vandor. Trying to steal their fleets. The Federation currently can't afford to build enough new ships, either.

"They may have to start trying to do it on the cheap. Conquer without war. There's this scientist named Forbus who has been working on anticriminal psychopharmaceutics - docility drugs, in layman's terms. I don't know where he is, but he's been reporting some laboratory successes recently. It would be worth trying to locate him and put a stop to his experiments. Before Servalan starts paying attention. Which she probably will very soon."

The others consider his advice. Discuss it. If he's right, Servalan could acquire a major new weapon. It's worth checking out, to prevent that. Suddenly, Zen startles them by speaking. "Information. **Liberator** is approaching Fontina."

Up ahead indeed is the planet of darkness, which is what Fontina is supposed to mean. Mottled blue and green and white, they are currently on the planet's nightside, so it certainly seems dark enough. Quickly, Tarrant establishes a stable orbit, locked in position over D'm'nk. Now to find Avon.

"Orac," Tarrant asks, "any news on where he is?"

*Negative,* replies the supercomputer. *Avon is still in D'm'nk. So is Servalan.*

"Servalan!" cries Dayna. "She's still here? But her ship isn't in orbit!"

"It has landed at a secret base. Servalan is using the planet's datanet to search for the Weasel. And for Carnell. She knows **Liberator** is on its way back to the planet."

"Right," says Tarrant. "Let's get ready to go down there. Cally, you and Orac keep listening for news. Vila, come and operate the teleport. Dayna, you, Carnell, and I will search for Avon." He bounds off the flight deck.

In the teleport area, Carnell is fitted with a bracelet. And a gun. He holds it like an amateur, nearly dropping it the first time he tries to draw. Dayna looks on with condescending amusement.

"I've never held a gun before," he explains, his face reddening.

"You'll get used to it," she giggles.

Tarrant draws his own gun, shoves it in Carnell's face. "I'll be with you every step of the way down there," he warns. "You'd better not try to sell us out to Servalan."

"Who, me?" Carnell grins.

 


	20. Part Nineteen

Who would be powerful must never seem weak. An ancient truism of politics. One that Chritas has ignored, if he ever knew it.

For perhaps twenty minutes after his collapse, he stayed slumped in the Chamber, unable to move. Simes, fiercely loyal as any dog, refused to allow the guards to carry him to the elite medcenter, to his office, anywhere. Finally, Chritas's own personal guards arrived, shoving their way through the hysterical crowd outside the Chamber. Then and only then did Simes relinquish his charge. Chritas **is** in his office, recovering from his faint. Embarrassed, humiliated, furious. With himself, with the whole situation. With the overly solicitous medics hovering over him like favor-seekers. With a curse and a rage in his voice, he orders them away.

His is not the only rage in the room. Simes is berating Trager and Baylin for their incompetence in losing track of the Weasel, their stupidity, carelessness, lack of diligence. In the Army we'd have had slackers like you shot out of hand for this! And on and on.

Enough. Waving his hand, Chritas silences his properly infuriated aide. It is time for him to display his wrath.

"What happened?" he begins, softly. "Where is the Weasel?"

"We're trying to find him now, boss," says Trager, his voice shaking. His voice always shakes. He could be nervous or excited. It's all a game to him anyway.

Baylin picks up the story. "We used to reach him through his deputy, someone named Glin. Can't find him, either. I got through to someone in their central news bureau, says there's word of a gang war just started. Says they heard that Vedik's been killed, on the Weasel's orders. My guess is, the Weasel went underground to avoid retaliation. This Glin may have been x-rayed and the Weasel doesn't want that to happen to him. I'm trying to find another line to the guy. Gonna take time."

"Yes, Sir," Trager resumes. "It all happened so fast, within the last twelve hours. I'm sure it's just a temporary problem, Sir. We should be able to relocate the Weasel within a day or so."

Chritas groans. A day or so! Meanwhile, he's been made to look an ass in front of the Council, both for his failure to produce his evidence and for his disgraceful collapse upon discovering his failure. **Their** failure. There will be some punishment after this, oh yes. But first let them complete the job for him.

"Sir, the Council is still waiting for word from you. They've reassembled in the Chamber. Shall I have our guards disperse them?" Simes emphasizes the word 'our.'

Chritas ponders. Would that be a sign of strength or weakness? He cannot afford to show any more of the latter. Is it yet possible to wrest something positive out of this disaster?

Yes! He has allies on the Council, far more than Servalan has. He was on the very verge of triumph when that bastard Bercol pulled that little trick - now **there's** a puzzlement. How could Bercol have known about the Weasel and his disappearing act? Oh well, can't worry about that now. I'll get Bercol when this all over, too.

In any case, nothing has changed. The issues are the same as they were. Him against Servalan. He has the evidence, he has the votes, he has the strength where it is needed. All he has to do is use it.

It's possible, in fact, that this could work to his advantage, he thinks. I'm so strong that I won't let even a physical infirmity stand in my way.

He rises, shoos away the medics and Simes. "I shall go to the Chamber and demand that the vote be resumed. Nothing has changed. Servalan is still doomed." Slowly, haltingly at first but with gradually lengthening stride, he walks out of his office.

Stunned, scared, Simes follows like a confused puppy. He worships the Councillor, of course, thinks he's almost a god. But there are times when he wishes Chritas would ask him first before just **doing** something. Now is one of those times. After all, the man is physically weak, perhaps genuinely sick. In this state, how can he command the Council? But, Simes reflects, you can't just **tell** the Councillor something like that.

The Chamber is not as full as it was. Most of the Councillors are there, except for Dalbeen. But many of the aides and other observers have left. The Councillors themselves are seated as if expecting, hoping to leave any minute, like patients whose doctor has, unexpectedly but welcomely, not shown up for a dreaded appointment.

Chritas enters. At first, no one reacts. Then half of them are on their feet in an instant, the others falling back in their chairs, all of them as if they'd just seen a ghost.

Briskly, he walks to his chair, sits, sits tall and proud as if nothing had happened. Turns to the Chairman, nods. "Thank you for waiting. Shall we resume the vote?"

Noticeable confusion amongst the others at the table. No one is instantly jumping to his feet to welcome back the Councillor, no one is immediately seconding his motion. Chritas realizes they are all simply stunned to see him back so soon. He assumes that's what it is. He **hopes** that's what it is.

"For those of you who were concerned by my earlier indisposition - " he is terribly proud of himself for producing that euphemism so easily - "let me assure you that I am in perfect health. I had a momentary reaction to a vitamin injection, that's all. Nothing else. Shall we continue with the vote, then?"

Silence. Everyone's eyes are on him, and their looks aren't kindly ones, either. Shit, he thinks, has that dome-rat Bercol been at them in my absence? Simes should have detained the whole lot of them!

The silence becomes almost embarrassing. Finally, the Chairman turns to him and says, in a very low voice, "Excellency, are you sure you are up to the rigors of this?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" he snaps, too loudly. It can be heard all the way to the end of the table.

"We merely wonder if perhaps we should suspend this session until you are feeling better, that's all," says Gideon, Supervisor of Public Indoctrination - propaganda, in other words. A notorious fence-sitter, he hadn't yet voted when Bercol pulled his little nick. Wonder which way he'd have gone, thinks Chritas. Servalan used to say he had two assholes, so that he could sit on more than one fence at a time. Crude bitch, but absolutely right about Gideon.

"I feel fine," Chritas protests. "I already told you that. I'm here and I insist we resume the vote. Nothing has changed. My evidence stands, Senator Bercol's pathetic attempt at obstruction to the contrary."

"Of course, excellency," Gideon goes on smoothly, "but in the interim some of us have thought his arguments over and have decided that he may be right. Certainly the President's actions demand scrutiny of the most rigorous nature. Certainly she should be forced to explain herself to the Council. But I, for one, am not convinced that we have any business impeaching her before she can make her case before us. And I think I speak for much of the Council when I say that." He smiles, hands folded on the table in front of him. Angelic, almost, or would be if the Federation recognized angels any longer.

Bastard, Chritas thinks. What did Bercol promise you while I was passed out. It is almost too painful for him to remember his humiliating weakness, even to himself. As soon as I get out of this, Gideon, you're a dead man. A **dead man** , do you hear me?

His eyes scan the long table. To his dismay, he realizes that many, perhaps even most of the Councillors are nodding their heads in agreement with Gideon.

A pang of sharp pain slices into Chritas, so wicked he almost gasps, can barely refrain from wincing. He was so close. So close! He doesn't know how Bercol did it, but that vile fiend somehow knew that the Weasel was the source of all the evidence against Servalan and that he could no longer be found. Who sold me out? he thinks.

Then barks at himself. Enough of this recriminating! Deal with it later. What am I going to do here, now? If this vote is postponed, it'll be the end. No one will support me when that bitch gets back. Must do something! Anything!

"Do I take it," he hears his voice saying, "that the Council is now inclined to wait until the President returns, to give her a chance to present a defense before the vote is completed?" Without waiting for any reply, he goes on, "Very well. This Council will form a Board of Inquiry, to be chaired by myself, into the President's recent actions. The President will be invited to return from Fontina immediately, and will be taken into custody upon her return, in order to ensure her appearance before the Board. If she does not return within forty-eight hours, that will be taken as proof of all charges against her. You will all be held in isolation until then. The Capitol Guard will carry out these orders. This session is adjourned." He stands and exits through a hidden door behind him, leaving behind a stunned Chamber.

Once in the secret corridor outside the Chamber, Chritas begins to shake. He has snatched, if not a victory, at least a half victory, from the jaws of total defeat. He feels elated. His strength has not betrayed him! When the true crisis arrived, he **acted** , and performed brilliantly. The man of action, of destiny. Others plot; others hesitate. Not him. Never him.

And what, after all, has really happened? He will get to humiliate Servalan in person, that's all. His evidence is real. The Board of Inquiry will go along with him; the Capitol Guard will see to that. Her defeat hasn't been averted, merely delayed a trifle. He can live with that.

Chritas hurries along the hidden passage to his office. Simes is waiting for him in the vestibule, eyes shining with admiration. "Brilliant, sir!" he gushes. "You outfoxed all of them. I was watching on the secret channel. If you could have **seen** Bercol's face when you announced that Board of Inquiry! Bright red he turned, sir, started to choke. And with the Guard to keep them all in detention until she gets back so that no one can communicate with her - every single one of them was fit to commit treason themselves! Got to hand it to you, sir, you didn't let them roll you over."

Beaming with pleasure, Chritas puts an arm around Simes, leads him into his inner office. "Thank you, Davril, thank you. One must never let them think they are in control. The Federation isn't a democracy, after all. A little strength is all it takes."

"You didn't get the impeachment, though."

"No I didn't. But, do you know, I do believe the Board of Inquiry will work out even better? We'll really have a show-trial to broadcast. But I don't think I want to wait that long. Better to not leave anything to chance this time. Have **our** Guard units pick her up, along with Avon and Carnell. And the **Liberator** , if they can find her. Order Servalan's officers to seize her and bring her back. It should be easy to trace the return of her ship from Fontina. She can be blasted as soon as they take her. We'll hold a Board of Inquiry on a corpse."

"Good idea, sir."

Suddenly, they both stand in shocked silence. They are in Chritas's inner room, and it is empty. Completely empty. A void. No furniture, no computer equipment, no bookshelves, no vidscreen. Nothing. And no Baylin or Trager, either.

"What happened?" Chritas screams. "Where is everything? Where are they?"

Simes has immediately touched his belt communicator. "Guard!" he shouts. "Seal off the entire Capitol Complex! Trager and Baylin of the Councillor's staff to be detained. Shoot to kill if necessary. They must not escape. And send a security team to the Councillor's office immediately."

Very competent. After acting, though, Simes drains. He stands mutely next to his principal. They stare at each other. First the Weasel disappears, now this happens. What is going on here?

 


	21. Part Twenty

A city of wanderers. A city of darkness. A city of death. The **Liberator** crew is wandering through D'm'nk, penetrating its darkness, witnessing its deadliness. Once more into the Shade they go, creeping down its murky alleys, turning its fearful corners, avoiding its menacing doorways. And everywhere the desperate crowds seeking fun, seeking death, seeking escape. Hordes, multitudes, like moths to a lamp. And each one as isolated as if in a personal defense shield. No one talks to anyone else, except to make their petty, dirty little deals. Tarrant and Dayna are close to despair. How are they ever going to find Avon in this?

Perhaps there is a way. Orac has located Servalan, has given them the coordinates. Tarrant sends Dayna to find her, track her. "Keep her away from us," he instructs her. "As long as Carnell can't make contact with her, he won't be able to sell us out." Dayna nods, disappears like a ghost. Even Tarrant barely notices her departure. Carnell suddenly turns around, asks where she's gone. Tarrant grins, doesn't tell him.

The two men go from bar to bar, asking for information on Vedik and the Weasel. There is none to be had. Except for a persistent rumor that Vedik is dead and the Weasel has dropped out of sight. And everyone seems to know that there are Federation ships nearby. No one seems to care. As long as it doesn't interfere with their fun, why should they? After all, what has the Federation to do with them? They're hardly going to send their bully-boys into the Shade to shut it down, now, are they? The Shade would like to see them try!

Very interesting, Tarrant thinks, after hearing the story for the umpteenth time, but it isn't exactly hard info. It isn't getting us any closer to Avon! He says as much to Carnell. The puppeteer nods. "Come, Tarrant, you used to be a smuggler. I'm sure you're familiar with this sort of place. Gods know I've seen it often enough on my...er, travels. Spacer zones run on rumor as much as they do on sex, booze, and drugs."

"You're sure enough right about that," the pilot agrees. "But it doesn't help us any. You'll notice that none of the rumors mention Servalan."

Carnell is secretly impressed. He **has** noticed that, of course; he's just surprised that Tarrant noticed it, too. The pilot isn't as dumb as he looks. What does that do to the plan?

Must risk it. "I think I know where Avon is. At least, I have an **idea** , although it's no more than that."

"Well?"

"I don't want to say in case I'm wrong. It could be the longest of longshots, and I don't want to appear a fool if I've guessed wrongly."

"Then let's go!" says Tarrant enthusiastically.

"No, two people would be conspicuous going there. Especially two men. I want to go there myself. I'll let you know if I'm right."

The pilot snorts. "Not a chance, Carnell. Not a chance. Together or we stay here. Take your pick." His gun is out, pointed straight at the puppeteer.

Carnell considers the gun. Could he...? No, probably not. It isn't worth calling attention to that aspect of his abilities, anyway. Maybe he can lose Tarrant later on.

He must appear to give in graciously. "Oh, very well. This way." He turns down a broad thoroughfare, crowded with shops and shoppers. Tarrant follows, at a trot. Carnell has set a very fast pace, darting through the masses of people clogging the sidewalks. It is a fairly bright afternoon, Fontina's distant sun poking through the clouds and the smog. Even this part of the Shade partakes of some of the illumination. The cessation of the rain has brought out the tourists, spacers, badboys, joygirls, and cops. There are people everywhere. Fortunately, both Carnell and Tarrant are quite tall. The pilot is able to keep his eye on the back of Carnell's fine blond head as the two work their way down the street.

Suddenly, there is an opening ahead. Like a racehorse diving for the rail, Tarrant bursts through, pulls even with the puppeteer. Grabs him by the shoulder. Carnell whirls around, gun out and in his hand. Tarrant backs off, startled. What the hell?

"It's only me, Carnell!" he grins.

Carnell puts the gun down. Joins Tarrant's grin with one of his own. "Sorry, you spend as much time on the run as I have, you get jumpy."

"Sure," agrees the pilot. "Just don't get so far in front or me, okay?"

Carnell's eyes twinkle as he nods. In the sunlight, they appear even lighter than usual. Almost bleached out, in fact, Tarrant reflects. A man with no eyeballs, he looks like. Impossible to read. Even harder to trust.

"Right," he says. "This way." Points down an alley. A dark, long, twisting alley. Makes for it without waiting for Tarrant.

"Hold on," the pilot calls after him. "Let's check in with the ship. Tell them where we're going, see if they've found anything out." He raises his wrist to his mouth. "Cally, Tarrant. We're on our way somewhere, our puppeteer won't say exactly where. Yet. Any news?"

The Auron's welcome voice fills the air. "Yes. Orac is reporting that he has intercepted a signal from Chritas to the Weasel. The Weasel is to kill Servalan and capture Avon, Carnell, the rest of us, and the ship. We're to be sent back to Earth to stand public trial. Tarrant, the Weasel has people everywhere looking for you. Be very careful."

"We will, Cally. Anything from Dayna?"

"She's staking out a building where Servalan is supposed to be, according to Orac. That's all."

"All right, Cally. We'll report in soon. Have Vila standing by, though, in case we need to come up quickly. Tarrant out." He turns to Carnell. "Lead on."

Deeper and deeper into the alley. It gets narrower and darker the further it goes, twisting and turning. Flanked by tall, anonymous buildings. More of a tunnel than an alley. For many minutes they pass silently down its gloomy course, saying nothing, seeing nothing, not even a rat. Tarrant is getting more and more nervous.

"How much longer?" he asks.

"Not much," the puppeteer replies, pushing onward, his pace increasing. Tarrant must strain to keep up with him.

Up ahead it appears to be getting lighter, as if the tunnel, er, alley, is coming to an end. There are some people apparently standing at the mouth. Just standing there, aimlessly, it would seem.

"Careful!" Tarrant warns in a hiss, hitting the side of the alley and edging his way forward in shadow. He grabs Carnell, pulls him alongside. "We don't know who they are! Don't let them see us yet." He pulls his gun, holds it high in front of him. Carnell is glad to let him take the lead; in fact, he hangs back a bit.

A bright light suddenly stabs out at them, blinding Tarrant. "Citicops!" a harsh voice yells. "Freeze!" A clattering of feet rushing toward them.

Tarrant's gun flashes, many times. Screams, the sound of bodies falling. Tarrant has dropped, is rolling away from the wall, firing again and again as he does so. Blasters roar, their beams striking for him. Striking where he was. Missing every time. Tarrant never misses.

Then, a second later, silence. Tarrant rises. No one else does. In front of him, almost a dozen bodies are strewn in small piles. Some never even drew their guns. Their searchlight has been shattered, too. In the distance, a siren wails. Tarrant can hear a groundcar getting closer.

He looks around. He is the **only** thing in sight. Carnell has gone. Damn! he curses. Let him out of my sight. This must have been a trap. But how? When could he have set it up? No, he probably just took advantage of a random police stakeout to get away from me.

No time to worry about that. More police will be here any second. His heart pounding, still angry with himself for letting Carnell escape, Tarrant calls the ship, requests teleport. For once Vila is ready, and Tarrant disappears within seconds.

Back on the ship, Tarrant probes Orac for information about Carnell. There is none. "Come on, Orac," he yells, "he's got a bracelet!"

*Nevertheless, I cannot track him,,* the supercomputer answers. *Perhaps he has taken it off.*

Cally and Tarrant look at each other. "I never fully trusted him, you know," says Cally. "It was all too easy, his converting to our side."

"You're right," says Tarrant. "I wonder what he'll try to do now. Probably find Servalan. We'd better warn Dayna."

*Information,* booms Zen. *Federation ships approaching."

"How many?" Tarrant asks, springing for his pilot's station instantly and instinctively.

*Six pursuit craft, on an intercept vector.*

"Vila," Cally is ordering, "bring Dayna up immediately. Do you hear?"

A second passes. "Vila, did you hear me?"

"Yes," says his voice. "Got her."

"Good," says Tarrant. "Both of you get up here. We've got company."

Tarrant prepares to break orbit and run, the others station themselves with the weapons and defenses, waiting, waiting, while the pursuit ships get closer and closer and...

The viewscreen shows six points of light, growing larger and larger. Suddenly, they flash right by and are gone, disappearing to pinpoints, then to nothing.

"Hell, they went right past us!" says Tarrant.

"Zen, what happened?" Cally asks.

"No information is available."

"Orac," Dayna inquires, "why didn't they attack us?"

*Our detector shield was up,* answers the supercomputer. *They had no idea we were here.*

"Orac," asks Cally, "why didn't you tell us the shield was working? We wouldn't have broken orbit if we'd known."

"You didn't ask. I merely follow instructions when I have to. The rest of time I prefer to be left alone. By the way, I am picking up a signal."

"Carnell?" Tarrant asks eagerly.

*Negative. He is still not registering on my sensors. This is from Earth. Councillor Chritas has won a vote of impeachment against Servalan in the Federation Council. He has named himself President in her place and has publicly ordered her death. A reward of one million credits has been established for anyone who can bring this about.*

"Orac, do you know where she is?" Vila asks. When the others look at him, he shrugs. "Hey, a million credits here, a million there. Sooner or later, you're talking about real money."

Carnell hears that and grins. His bracelet is indeed on, but indeed not registering with Orac.

As soon as the fight in the alley started, he turned and sprinted for a hidden doorway. Once inside, he made his way through the abandoned building, abandoned like so many other usable structures in the Shade, to the street. There, he headed in the opposite direction from where he'd been taking Tarrant. Listening to the conversations from the **Liberator** all the while. That bug he planted before Cally slugged him is proving to be very useful. Undoubtedly they'll discover it soon, but by then it will have more than served its purpose.

Now to business. The final act is about to begin and he must set the stage. Ahead of him on the corner is a comm-booth. He steps inside, inserts his credit chip, and touchpads a number. It is answered before the first ring has finished. Before it has barely started, in fact.

Carnell smiles to himself as he deals with the cretin who has answered. Predictable. How did he get this number. Who is he. What does he want. Finally, he gets through to his intended target. Says a very few words. Few but potent. Rings off as the sputtering begins. Never did like surprises, did you, he thinks. Well, you've got a few more coming. Hope you never learn about them.

Time to go. He sets off at a dead run.

 


	22. Part Twenty-one

Somewhere there is a buzzing. And a pain, behind him. A fuzziness clogging his synapses. Swirling clouds befogging his mind. An awareness of darkness.

Darkness. Is he still dreaming this? No, he has started to awaken. In the dark, in more ways than one.

Where is he? Off in the distance, far off, a faint light leaches in from an unseen source. He is in a vast dark space, cluttered, broken by crumbling walls and ramshackle shelves. It is damp and musty, and dry and dusty. No sound of any street can be heard. (How far below street-level **is** he?)

His wrists are chafing. As well they should: they are bound behind his back. He tries to move his arms, discovers he is chained to the wall against which he is slumped. He is sitting on one of his legs, the other splayed out in front of him. He tries to stand, can't; his nether leg has fallen asleep. Pins and needles and a horrible cramping pain attack, and he collapses. Gritting his teeth, biting his lip to keep from crying out in pain, he gasps. Takes a few very deep breaths. Looks around again.

Nothing. Not a rat, not an insect. Certainly no people. An indistinct arrhythmic beat, perhaps a leak dripping water irregularly. That's the only sound that reaches his ears. He sniffs. There has been a fire nearby recently, a major one. The acrid aroma of charred wood, charred plastic, charred flesh envelops him, making him gag. Bringing back memories. A crowded place, churning pulsating bodies and storms of noise...a fight. A ceiling-speaker set on fire. A riot. Darkness...

The memory fades, replaced by a grimmer, darker one. A ship. An interrogation table, hard and cold. The straps too tight around his chest, arms, and legs. A grinning woman with hair too short leering at him. Showing him tapes...over and over again. People he knows. A ship he has come to call home. Leaving. Leaving him. Abandonment. Betrayal.

Avon screams. The piercing wail echoes throughout the long, low ceilinged vault, rebounds off hidden walls and cabinets shrouded in the dark; returns to him as a pale washed-out noise. Silence invades, conquers, reigns. Nothing, no one has noticed his outburst. The dripping alone is alive.

He is remembering. Images flood his burning brain. Carnell chopping the back of his neck the riotcops dragging him out Tarrant and Dayna watching his capture then disappearing before his eyes Cally agreeing with them waking up in a cell breaking out a headlong rush through a dark rainy city Glin vanishing in a flood of flame Servalan grinning at his living corpse on the interrogation table the video running again and again...then nothing. This.

It has happened! He has never thought it possible, that they would actually leave him. That they **could** leave him. The **Liberator** has been his for so long, the others merely passengers on his ship. They have followed him, not out of loyalty to any futile cause, but for survival. They have **needed** him, and he has done his best to keep them alive. And how have they repaid him? Abandonment. Betrayal. Servalan.

What will she do to him? Rescue is scarcely possible; Avon has never believed in miracles. He has fallen into her hands once and for all; fate has taken possession of him. She will not be merciful, he is under no illusions. Whatever the attraction between them - he feels it as strongly as she does, no use pretending it isn't there - her career has always ruled her libido. She is not going to be nice to him just because she lusts for him.

It might be even worse if she did.

Avon's eyes have started to adapt to the darkness. Seeing is no better than being blind, though. He is in some kind of storage area, unused for close to an eternity, it would seem. Cartons and pallets and skids lie everywhere. The boxes are broken, contents spilling out. Spoiled food and broken bottles are legion. Moldy paper bedecks walls and floor indiscriminately. Stale urine mixes with ancient liquor. And pervading it all, underlying it and overlying it, is the smell of fire, of smoke, of burning death. It reminds Avon of his last days on Earth before being caught...of Anna Grant, and the fence with the exit visas, and the alleyways and basements and flophouses in which he hid while bleeding to death, before the black-clad Security troopers took him away and patched him up for interrogation and trial. And exile. And escape. And the living hell of the redemption Blake made him go through. So that he could live until this day.

For what? For further abandonment and betrayal? For a pissy, boozy, moldy basement as a prison?

For...Servalan?

At least he is no longer sitting on his left leg; feeling is starting to return to it. The rest of his consciousness is still bereft of feeling. He is numb, stolid, resigned. He is heartsick, furious, despairing. Fearful. Panicked. Calm. Lost at sea and sinking quickly.

He is Avon. Alpha-grade. Computer genius. Hard-nosed survivor. All-time loser.

What will Servalan do with him? What will the others do without him?

Maybe they are coming back! Maybe at this moment they are looking for him.

Maybe at this moment he is about to fly away and land in Valhalla.

A sudden noise startles him. His heart leaps into action, faster than it should. Pain seeps into his chest, his breathing shreds into ragged gasps. He looks around, tense, poised for action, muscles tight as steel rods.

Nothing. Silent as space, and a lot emptier. His heightened senses sweep the area, focusing on every molecule as if a dot in a pointillist painting. Nothing.

Then, a slight movement. Avon senses, **smells** something scuttling behind a broken storage cabinet lying in ruins on the floor near a wall some ten meters away. A small something, rooting for who knows what amongst the wreckage. A tiny nose protrudes, sniffing away. A head, body, tail follow. A 'puffpig' they call it here. The Fontinan equivalent of a pack-rat. A scavenger, lives on garbage and waste. Pointed snout, several rows of sharp teeth. Beady eyes. Ugly rodent.

The most beautiful thing Avon has seen in his life.

 **Come close** , he begs. **Keep me company**.

But the puffpig, aware of the distraught computer tech, picks its away across piles of broken glass, checking out every possible morsel it might conceivably eat, then disappears through a hole in another wall.

Again Avon is alone. Again he is abandoned, left behind. Betrayed.

Time passes. The faint light far away neither waxes nor wanes. The atmosphere in this dungeon grows staler, ranker, more and more dismal. The dust neither settles nor swirls, but somehow it coats Avon's face, his clothing, his hair, his face, his mouth and tongue. He coughs, breathes it in and chokes on it. His mouth dries out; he would kill for something to drink. Even for a mouthful of saliva.

He cannot hold himself away from the wall and the cruel clutches of the chains. He slumps, feels the handcuffs bite into his wrists, tries to pull away. It takes energy to maintain an upright position, energy that Avon continually has less and less of. Finally, he falls back, manacles and all. The pain is intense, but he **cannot** sit up any longer.

Fear and anger have conspired within him; his brow is boiling, feverish. Sweat has cloaked him in a moist garment of dankness, clammy skin clinging to him like rain. Left alone for so long, how long he has no idea except it has come to seem like eternity, his thoughts are no fit companion for a condemned prisoner. He broods on his life, its misspent contours apparent to him. He has never been his own man, not in childhood, not in adolescence, not in early adulthood, not now. Always he has done what others wanted, expected of him, and always he has been betrayed. In school...no, it is **still** too painful to think about that. As a young programmer with the Federation Bank. With Blake. Without Blake. For all his vaunted coldness and self-devotion, he has always been manipulable. And therefore manipulated. All to avoid being rejected.

Fear of rejection has governed his entire life. Because he **has** been rejected, early and often. His parents. His siblings. His peers in first school. His teachers. 'Extremely intelligent, but unable to make friends.' His first psych-assessment. He **tried** to make friends. Oh, how he tried. But how could he? Certainly his home-life never taught him how. The youngest child, born years after his siblings, to parents who were already splitting up when they had him. A father who swore he wasn't his own child. A mother who couldn't deal both with him and with her own addiction. Siblings who blamed him for causing their parents' breakup.

Who **wouldn't** try to accommodate under such circumstances? He tried; he just couldn't do it. He kept trying. Doing whatever he could to make himself fit in. Used his computer skills to fix things for ethers. Grades. Exams. Entrance assays. Dating services. Banks. All it earned him was their contempt...not that they stopped using him.

Doing what the few adults in his life demanded, even though he didn't want to. The Institute...no, mustn't think of that. The Federation Bank. Which he hated. He was a computer genius, not a bookkeeper!

And when he tried to branch out, take what was there - bingo, yet another betrayal. One it took him four years to discover.

All his life he has gone along, recognizing the futility with his superior intellect, but going along rather than be left out. Done for others instead of doing for himself. That's why he did whatever Blake asked him, no matter how stupid he thought it was. Why he never ran away despite all the chances he had. Why he has continued the rebellion after Blake disappeared. Being accommodating is easier than being rejected.

And look what it has gotten him! Here on Fontina, when he was only trying to do something for the **Liberator** crew! Give them Carnell, who might conceivably deliver them from the madness of constant failure. Rescue them from his own inability to win, to defeat Servalan. All this he was trying to do for them. For **them**! And all they can do, at the first sign of trouble, is scamper off. Leave him to Servalan. Or to death. Or to slavery in Fontina's mines, which differs from death only in being more prolonged and much more painful.

Anger engulfs him, a sudden pang of rage. At himself. At them. At life, the universe, the evil kings of fate who have ruled his life since it began.

The rage burns out as quickly as it flared up, replaced by a dull inertia. Deadheadedness without the drug. Avon is resigned. At least it will soon be over.

Time passes. Fear creeps back in, to join resignation and make a party.

**What will she do with me? It can't be worse than what my life has already done to me.**

****From the inside, you can't tell this was once a warehouse. It reminds her a bit of her late lamented Residence One on Earth. Presumably it didn't cost Vedik as much to set it up as her own palace cost her. The security wasn't any better here than her own was, though.

Shaking her head, she sheds that thought. Her biggest strength has always been her ability not to brood on the past. At least not on her **own** mistakes. Other people's mistakes and enmities - well, that's another story. Mustn't ever forget those. Or forgive them. But there's no point that she has ever been able to see in remembering what you did wrong. Usually your own mistakes are caused by other people's fuck-ups anyhow. So get on with it. Vedik's house is the perfect place to set up. Who would ever suspect it as her hideout? It connects to Fontina's obsolete data network; it has computer and communications equipment; and with **her** guards in control, it will certainly be safe. No one is going to get in **here**.

That was the easy part, getting in again and taking it over. Finding Carnell is not going to go so smoothly. She has underestimated the stuck-up prick, that is clear. Funny, how long did she lust after Avon? How long did she stand a bit in awe of him, sure that he was smarter than her? And in the end he was a lot easier to out-think and capture than Carnell. She had been so **sure** that it was only luck that was keeping the puppeteer out of her grasp. She has lost a little respect for Avon, now that she finally has him. Oh, she may enjoy herself a little with him, but that will be more to humiliate him **utterly** than to satisfy her own concupiscence. He no longer attracts her. Much.

Now she has bigger game to go after. Carnell.

Her technical troopers are already scanning the planet's systems. Her initial plan was to interface with the Weasel, offer him control of this planet in return for Carnell. Except that the Weasel seems to have gone completely off-line. At first, this puzzled her. Why would he drop out of touch when he's on the verge of winning? Having killed Vedik, wouldn't he immediately try to take over the dead crime chiefs territories and operations? Then, she figured it out. The Weasel must be scared of **her**. So he's gone into hiding until she's gone. Vedik's empire will still be there for the taking.

This raises a question: how long can **she** afford to wait? After all, there's still Chritas on Earth. If she can find Carnell and bring him and Avon back with her, she will surely defeat that upstart, that **pimple**. If. Also, there's still the **Liberator** somewhere out there. Capable of any and every depredation against order and unity. With tough, dedicated terrorist scum on board. Even without Avon, they're still a threat. To her and to her Federation.

The computroops are doing their best, she can see that. Nevertheless, she berates them for their slowness and incompetence. Rails at them to stop making excuses for failure; she wants **success**! Demands that they find Carnell. Or the Weasel. Or **Liberator**. Or, preferably, all three.

Threats don't seem to be working today. She misses Avon, suddenly. **He** was scared of her.

She can only watch as her underlings attempt to do her bidding. It is a recipe for frustration. It has always been her will against the world. Her will was her armor, her shield, her weapon. Never has she bothered to learn the world's ways, its ins and outs; her life has been a crusade to teach it to accept **her** ways, **her** means.

The struggle left her no time for science, no time for technology, no time for art or literature or history...barely any time for love or sex. It was a sacrifice she gladly made. She has been able to **own** others to handle her technical or scientific needs for her. She has never missed art or literature or history. After all, she has **made** history, she **is** history. Art and literature are the playthings of the weak, the amusements of the irrelevant she is busy with real life. Love and sex fill up the time between actions.

An acceptable trade. But there are times, such as now, when she can only watch while others, **without** her dedication and willpower, must do for her what she cannot do for herself. She can order, she can threaten, she can even kill; but she cannot make the laws of physics disobey themselves merely to placate her. It is a reminder of her limitations; this infuriates her more than just about anything else in the universe.

All her ordering and threatening come to nought. The techno-troops have failed. The Weasel is not to be found. Carnell could be anywhere for all they can tell. Servalan has shouted herself almost hoarse. She is on the verge of ordering their executions, just for the entertainment value, when one of them beckons her over.

Apologetically, he hands her a comm-set. "Insists on talking to you, ma'am."

"How did he get this node?" she all but shouts.

"Won't say. I can't hang up on him either. Must have some kind of bastard override key, ma'am. Tried to say you're not here, but he won't listen. Sorry."

"That's all right, trooper." It can't be, it just **can't** be. She takes the handset. "Yes?" she asks. It **is**! "What do you want?" she says, voice low, a sure sign of a threat with her.

"I know where you've hidden Avon," the voice on the other end says. "I'm heading there myself. I've told the rest of the **Liberator** crew and they're going to meet me there to help rescue him."

Frantically she tries to think. "Why are you telling me this? If you're with the **Liberator** , why are you giving me a warning?"

"Figure it out for yourself, Servalan," the voice says. And rings off.

"Guards!" she shouts. "The whole troop! Quickly, follow me." And she storms out of the room, every inch the empress she someday hopes to be.

Panic-stricken, the troopers follow her, most not even bothering to turn off their computers and viewscreens.

The empty room winks like a fire at their absence.

 


	23. Part Twenty-two

Carnell has never run so far or so fast or for so long before. He is an Alpha and what is more he is a puppeteer. The life physical is not for him, has never been. Even his year and a half on the lam has been more of an emotional strain than a truly corporeal one. Oh, he's missed the occasional meal, not that he ever needed to eat much. And he's had to sleep in some interesting places. And the fear of premature capture has taken its toll. But he hasn't had much wear and tear on his body. So he's out of shape. His mind is as tough as it's ever been.

Nevertheless, he must run. He hasn't left himself much time. After all, he should be there for the final act of his own play, shouldn't he?

Getting away from Tarrant was easy, much easier than it should have been. The pilot obviously felt that the psychostrategist was cowed by his Alpha manliness and wouldn't dare try to escape his presence. Fat chance of that, Tarrant! he thinks. You deadhead star-jockeys are the easiest of all to fool. Can't see anything but the inside of your own egos, after all. It's just a good thing that it wasn't Dayna keeping an eye on me. She'd have been much harder to shake.

Instantly, though, Carnell switches from gloating over that small triumph to considering his next task. Has he guessed right? Nothing else matters, nothing else has ever mattered. It has all come down to this.

He crosses a metal-clad square, the metal no longer gleaming, but rather scored and pitted and stained. Burn marks are everywhere, as are the tread patterns of heavy vehicles and the pocks of bullets. Carefully, quietly, he glides to the other side, to the burned-out shell of a building, its entrails still smoking, glowing from what must have been a hellish fire.

Down the sooty skeleton of a stairway he goes, holding on to the blackened railing in case a stair gives way. At the bottom he finds himself amidst wreckage that would sicken a robot. Burned corpses are everywhere, many of them piled high. Obviously they tried to escape the fire and many of them were trampled to death before the smoke or fire killed the rest of them. He sees a ceiling-high cage filled with charred husks of bodies, many of them with hands still clinging to the links of the cage as if trying to shake it open so they could escape. The smell of the place is horrific, broiled flesh mingling with burned plastic and wood...quickly, Carnell searches for a way out.

And finds it. A door leading to another stairway down. This was a fire-door, even so, it is warped from the heat and black from the fire. But the stair behind it has survived the conflagration, as has the sub-basement at its end. He descends, comes to another metal door. Turns the handle. It opens easily, as if it has just recently been used. He goes through.

And finds himself in a dark vestibule opening into a vast space. He emerges from the semi-tunnel, stands up. It is dusty, gloomy, dim. Light and shadow alternate in stark bands, punctuating the tomblike interior. He moves slowly, cautiously; he has always been a most cautious man. There is no danger here, but he has never trusted anyone or anything, not even his own calculation.

Not a sound can be heard. Not even the Shade's constant rumble penetrates into this vault. For a second, he wonders where the light is coming from, but he knows he has no time to waste on speculation. He moves forward, slowly, cautiously, silently. His heart is pounding. He **was** right. Right all along! He wants to shout, to sing, it feels so good. It is all coming together, here, finally; it is unprofessional to want to gloat, but there you have it: sometimes the emotions overcome the mind, the will, even his mind and will. Nevertheless, he has gambled and he has been proved right and he is almost unnaturally proud of himself.

Quicker now, he lances through the darkness. He has seen something on the other side of the chamber and must check it out...yes, there it is. Not the final target, but an important one. He strides up, confident that he has won. Won totally and forever. He looms over it...

Carnell smiles at the man in chains, huddled in a corner. It's a cold smile, a sardonic one. It is a smile of superiority, not of humor. "Hello, Avon. Nice to see you again." The chains clatter against the floor as Avon turns to face his old schoolmate.

"Carnell. Not that nice." He moans softly. Then he stretches his back. "I almost got you out of there." He tries to stand up, fails. The chains to his wrists are too short, they pull him back. He kneels, almost in supplication to the smirking puppeteer.

Who disdains helping him. With a stare that would do Orac proud, if only Orac could stare, Carnell contemplates Avon contemptuously. "Almost? You were never close, Avon," he says. "I've had everything under control from long before the moment you ever saw me in that bar."

Now it is Avon's turn to stare. Wordlessly, he tries to focus on the other man, backlit and towering over him. He is finding it hard to breathe. "What - what do you mean?" he just manages to ask.

Instead of answering, Carnell leans over him. "Watch out," he says, and draws his **Liberator** gun. With the flourish of an expert. With two short bursts, he frees Avon from the chains. He stands back, watches Avon rise very slowly, painfully. Avon is about his size, but appears much smaller; almost shrunken, in the shadows. And maybe it's more than just the shadows diminishing him.

"What are you doing with that gun?" he asks in a toneless voice. He should be wondering, but he's so weary and crushed now that he finds no real interest in the question. Carnell, of course, recognizes this, but has no intention of letting Avon drift off.

"Why, I'm a member of the crew now, Avon," Carnell laughs. "A regular card-carrying rebel. I've replaced **you** , in fact. Does that surprise you? I mean, that's why you were searching for me, isn't it? So that I could take your place and you could leave? Of course, I don't think you meant to jump ship in such an unwholesome place." Carnell turns, begins to walk away. "Come on, we can't stay here. Servalan will be here shortly."

Avon struggles to catch up to him. "What do you mean by that? How do you know? Where are we, anyway?"

Carnell shakes his head, stops to stare at the darker man a little sadly. "Avon, I'm disappointed in you. We're in the sub-basement of the Space Dog's Nightmare. As for how I know Servalan will be coming here, why, I told her to, of course. She didn't think anyone knew of her little hiding place. She was very surprised to hear from me, and even more surprised to hear that I'd found you. She was very proud of using this location, but then she never had much imagination did she? That's why **she** needs me. My, I wish I'd been this popular when I first got out of the Institute!"

He smirks. "Remember the Institute, Avon? No, I suppose you would really rather forget the Institute, wouldn't you?"

Avon coughs. Grimaces in pain. "How could I forget it? After what you did to me there?"

Carnell strains to look innocent. "Why, whatever do you mean, Avon?"

"You know precisely what I mean. You had me kicked out. You tricked me into playing around with the files and then you ratted on me."

"I didn't trick you into anything, Avon. You were already manipulating the records when I caught on to your little scheme. All I did was give you some new ideas of what you could do to the system. It was your own responsibility that you did them. And I certainly didn't 'rat' on you."

"Oh no? Then what **do** you call it?"

"You didn't expect me to take the whole rap myself, did you?"

"No, but I didn't expect you to get off scot-free, either."

Carnell grins at that. "Oh, Avon, I'm surprised at you. I wasn't going to jeopardize my career for you, now was I? Besides. You weren't the only student whose illegitimate activities came to my attention. My my my. The Institute had rather a large attrition rate that term."

"You bastard." There is fire in Avon's eyes. Dim, banking, but still there.

Good, Carnell thinks. He isn't dead inside. Not yet. That's necessary for his plan. It won't work without Avon's cooperation.

"Why the anger, Avon? After all, puppeteers are supposed to be supreme strategists. We might as well start proving it, practicing it, as early as possible, right? How better than by removing the competition right from the start? I would have graduated with a First anyway, of course; but purging the class of my competition merely guaranteed my triumphal procession into the Federation's service as the most brilliant alumnus of the Institute at that time. Since then, too, in fact.

"So what if a few lesser types had their careers, their very lives blighted? You can't convince me that you really care what happened to them. You haven't changed that much since then, Avon. I know that for a fact. I've been studying you for years. You're as cold as I am. Perhaps not as good at it, that's all." He smiles pleasantly at the computer tech, his shimmering blue eyes even brighter than usual.

"But don't try to convince me that you're shedding any tears for them. In fact, one might even argue that I was doing them a favor. I certainly was doing you one, Avon. You didn't belong at the Institute, and we both know it. We knew it then. You hated that place. My getting you kicked out meant that you could go to the Computer Science Academy where you always wanted to go, anyhow. You really should thank me for that, you know."

"For what?" Avon retorts. "Before I could transfer, I had to spend two years in the Federation Guard as a foot soldier. Punishment detail. As a **data-entry clerk**! That was the only way I could make up for the blot on my record."

"And the Trager family never did forgive you, did they?" Carnell asks. "One of their own, who they used their influence to get into the Institute, shaming them by being expelled for cheating. Oh, the ignominy, the humiliation. They cut you out of their lives, right? As did your own family. Not much of a way to start out as an adult, Avon, getting caught in your first big scam. Not that you've done so much better since leaving it than you did there. You got caught in your last big scam, too, now that I remember it. How disappointing that must have been. But then, I suppose we Alphas can't all be worthy of the grade."

That's enough for Avon. Weakly, he swings a fist at Carnell. The puppeteer, genuinely surprised, manages to deflect it, although he is pushed back slightly. He has underestimated Avon's hatred for him, it seems. Again, that strange emotion, hate. Hate has always been the one feeling he could not master.

He decides to push on. After all, he doesn't know just how soon it will take Servalan to get here. Must hurry now. With a limping Avon gasping in his wake, Carnell walks quickly toward the exit from the funereal chamber. Several flights of stairs lead them to a vestibule. There, Carnell lets Avon recover his breath. He removes the bracelet from his wrist and quickly snaps it onto Avon's.

Avon's eyes are two question marks. "Why?" he barely manages to ask.

For a second, Carnell hesitates. He has won, completely and finally, and yet now he isn't sure the prize will be worth it. Revenge on Avon is, after all, a very minor victory. Revenge requires enemies, and he has never had any. Never wanted any. Still, strategy is the art of choosing what you want and wanting what you choose. He had better become proficient at the latter.

"Maybe I'm tired of being a rebel. Maybe I'm in love with Servalan and jealous of you. Maybe I'd prefer you being a threat and keeping me in business. Maybe doesn't matter. I'm letting you go, Avon, isn't that enough? Must you ask why?" But he knows this answer will not suffice. He doesn't expect it to.

Avon fingers the bracelet. He wants to teleport out, but something is stopping him. He can't look Carnell in the eyes. "What did you mean by saying you had everything in control?"

At last. Avon, even a weak, injured, depressed Avon, is still Avon, after all. Carnell has been expecting this, hoping for it A victory only counts if it's over a worthy opponent.

"I set this all up, Avon," he says, enjoying the effect of those words on the computer tech. Avon is suddenly rigid, then limp, then normal again. Carnell grins. He has waited a long time for this, a very very long time.

Avon stares at him hard, disbelieving. "Set what up?" he grits, his eyes wide, his mouth agape.

Carnell spreads his arms. "All this. Everything. Fontina, Servalan coming here, your coming here, your capture, this escape. It was all my plot, from the beginning. I almost didn't think it would work. It's hard to plan a complete psychological strategy while on the run, without access to computers and data. But I knew the principals involved so well, I thought it would work, especially if I was around to help it along."

Avon can't talk. Stunned, he slumps back against the wall. He raises a hand to his forehead as if he's just been shot. He is suddenly dizzy.

Carnell goes on. "I was getting tired of running from Servalan. I knew she'd catch me sooner or later, and then I was for the jump, wasn't I? The only way I could get back into her favor was by helping her in such a big way that she'd have to take me back. And I knew she was after you, so I decided to help her get you. But my way.

"I knew you were searching for Blake after losing him following the War. I ran into someone you know - Jenna Stannis, believe it or not - who told me Blake had died of his wounds. She's still piloting for a resistance group. She helped rescue that unfortunate second clone of his, from the Imipak affair, and transported it to some frontier world, Guardia Prima, or something like that.

"Anyway, it all came together. I was pretty sure that if Servalan came looking for me, you would, too, if only to deprive her of my services. So I started leaking my whereabouts to her, constantly just managing to escape from her forces. This would tantalize her, make her obsessed with catching me. But I knew I couldn't keep that up forever. For one thing, she might get lucky and catch me before I was ready.

"So I decided to bring everything together on Fontina. It was the perfect place for my plans. There's a major crimo boss in D'm'nk called 'The Weasel,' with fingers in every illegal pie on this wretched planet. Councillor Chritas has been relying on the Weasel for information and influence - to counteract Servalan's control of Vedik, who mostly rules here."

Avon coughs. "Tell me something I don't know. Orac told us all about the Weasel's war on Vedik, and Servalan and Chritas's parts in it."

Carnell smiles at him. "You know **nothing** , Avon. Nothing at all. Want me to tell you something you don't know? Okay, what about the truth. That should be a novel experience for both of us. Me telling it and you hearing it."

The computer tech glares at him. "The truth about what? About Vedik and this 'Weasel's' squalid turf battle?"

"Except that there is no Weasel." Carnell smiles again, very pleased with himself. "For the last year, I've been running a major scam on Fontina. The Weasel is really an AI of mine - you know, an artificial intelligence construct."

"I know what an AI is," Avon grates.

Carnell grins. "Of course you do. The Alpha computer tech and all that. In any case, I created the 'Weasel.' Well, a systemizer associate of mine created it. The actual system itself is on another planet. But enough of Fontina is wired into the general galactic network that I can manipulate most things here through netspace. This place has been in anarchy since the Andromedan War, you know. It was surprisingly easy to establish my 'Weasel' as a highly powerful crimelord, one who was so powerful that it was never seen.

"Then, with the help of a few fellow techs on Chritas's staff, I induced the Councillor to accept my creation as a temporary ally against Vedik and Servalan.

"For the last year, I've built my 'Weasel' into a major commercial and political rival of Vedik's. To the point that the Consul was in danger of being displaced as Fontina's **de facto** ruler. That made him desperate for Servalan's help. It also made her realize she might lose influence on this planet, if the Weasel won out and turned it over to Chritas. Conquering Fontina might just give Chritas the votes on the High Council to overthrow Madame President.

"Then there was part two of my plan. I've been letting Servalan track me from planet to planet. She's a vindictive woman, you probably know, and my escaping her all that long ago still bothers her. Besides, capturing me would be a coup for her, as well as bringing her the benefits of my strategic talents. So I threw her hints as to where I was headed. I knew she'd follow.

"Part three was to activate all the elements of my equation. I faked a message to Chritas, offering to surrender to him here, through my Weasel. I knew she would intercept it and come looking for me. I also got word to Orac - oh yes, he's not as impenetrable as you think - and planned for you to catch me first. How do you think you just happened to fall on me in that bar? You got there before I was ready, but I've learned to improvise since my escape. I placed myself where you could fall on me and took off your bracelet in the confusion - I've learned how to be a pretty decent pickpocket over the last year or so. Then I faked being knocked out.

"By the way, you've probably been wondering about Vedik. How would someone like him get hooked on Deadhead? Oh, don't be so surprised, Avon. Of course I know about that. I arranged it. Vedik was on the verge of learning that the Weasel didn't really exist. I couldn't take a chance that he would warn Servalan. So I had the Weasel send some 'specialists' to, um, deactivate him."

Avon swallows, hard. He glares at the puppeteer. "How did you know I was going after Vedik? I didn't know myself until just before I broke out of that jail."

"Simplicity itself, my dear Avon. Glin was a double agent. She was working for Servalan, yes? But how did Servalan find her? Glin certainly wasn't one of Vedik's employees, now was she? So who else could she have been serving? Why, the Weasel, of course. And who offered her to Servalan? Why, again, the Weasel, of course. Servalan never misses a trick, does she? Of course, neither do I."

He grins. "It's funny. I chose to be a puppeteer because I was afraid of living in the real world. Never thought I could function in the 'field,' as they call it. I haven't done so badly, have I?" He looks at Avon, as if expecting or even inviting questions.

Avon raises his head, dull eyes peering from beneath hooded lids. "Why - why are you doing this?" he croaks, his lips trembling. "Why are you helping Servalan?"

Carnell snorts. "You really are a fool, Avon. I'm not helping her. I'm helping **me**. Chritas may defeat her, but he can never lead the Federation, not the way she has. He doesn't have her grinding need to control everything. He'll never be able to complete the Refederation, he's too weak. Only Servalan can restore order."

He grins again at Avon's look of distaste. "Oh, I'm no politician. For one thing, I'd rather not be a public target! But if I help Servalan win, then I'll be the power behind the throne. Oh. I know how treacherous she is, no one knows that better than me. But after this, Ill have her at my mercy. In any case, a truly good puppeteer is a better servant than a master. An especially good puppeteer is both at the same time. And a master puppeteer, like me, will always know when to switch sides, should Servalan ever be in danger again. I'm safer with her, that's all." He smiles, as if it's all so simple.

The smile falters, just a bit. "Besides, there are things between me and her...That's probably over now."

It's all too much for Avon. What he's heard just now...Blake dead, Jenna smuggling somewhere else, he and Servalan pawns in Carnell's private game...he can barely comprehend it all, let alone assimilate it. To plan such a devious strategy, one demanding such patience to carry out - this is beyond even Avon's understanding, trained as it is in the slow pace of computer manipulation. Carnell isn't a puppeteer, he's a devil, a virus of machinations.

Avon stares at Carnell, revolted by the puppeteer's bland smile, the superior glint in his eyes. He would do anything to erase that smug grin, that sneering curve of Carnell's lips. He strikes out at random.

"Wasn't it dangerous to risk your whole strategy on such an improbable chance that both Servalan and I would follow you here? You'd have been sunk if either of us hadn't reacted just right. You staked everything here on Fontina, didn't you?" He hopes that weak shot will hurt his captor.

Not a chance. Carnell actually throws his head back and laughs. "Are you serious?" the man chortles. "Do you really think this was my only hope? Sure, I created the Weasel here on Fontina as a way to lure you, Servalan, and Chritas into my scheme. I'm also running similar scams on three other planets right now. If this hadn't worked, I'd have turned to one of my backups. Eventually, everything would have come together."

"You're so sure," Avon says. "Nobody could control so many events on so many different planets."

"Oh no?" Carnell asks, a mocking smile on his face. "Where do you think Jarvik came from? Remember him? On Kairos? He was working for me, you know. If you hadn't bluffed Servalan with that ridiculous piece of sopron, it would have worked right the first time off. But I was willing to be patient. Then there was Sula, better known as Anna Grant. And her unfortunate deluded husband, Chesku. And the late unlamented Shrinker. Again, you were all dancing to my string. That should have driven you completely mad. You just did manage to get out of that one. No matter." He pauses, looks closely to see what effect his words are having. He is not displeased.

Avon appears to be in agony, slumped against his chains, against the old wall. In fact, Avon is straining at his bonds, he wants desperately to get away, to flee this vile presence. Of all the terrible things that have happened to him since coming to Fontina, this seems to him to be the worst. Carnell is far nastier than Servalan; her ambition, destructive as it is, is instinctive, visceral, emotional; she has little choice in the matter. But Carnell's! His ambition is planned, schooled, rational and rationalized, plotted with an attention to detail worthy of an artist or a battle staff. Avon is being lectured to by a moral black hole. He has stared into the abyss, he wants nothing more than to run screaming in terror.

Carnell looks sharply at the computer tech, as if knowing exactly what he is going through. And as if he doesn't care one little bit. He grins again. "You've underestimated me all along, Avon. I really don't ever leave **anything** to chance. You'd better get used to that."

The last remark would puzzle the computer tech if he were able to ponder its significance. Instead, a wave of intense, violent physical revulsion sweeps over him, as he realizes the depth of Carnell's malevolent genius. Avon wretches, bends over double in nausea and pain. Dry heaves wrack him; spittle drools from the corners of his mouth, tears collect at the edges of his eyes. He is in agony, and also in anguish. He has been called cold, manipulative, self-serving; all accurate descriptions. But he is a babe in the creche compared with the puppeteer. His haggard face betrays his bewilderment, his abject fear in the face of this towering embodiment of sublime evil. He wants to crawl away and die.

Carnell smiles, as if all this is apparent to him. His eyes are mocking and horrific. "Don't worry, Avon, I won't hurt you. I don't even mind your knowing all this. It won't do you a bit of good, after all." He laughs out loud. "Oh, don't be afraid, I'm still going to let you go. I **want** you to go, in fact."

This makes no sense to Avon, even in his stupor. "Why, after confessing all of this?"

The man shakes his head; the answer is so obvious. "Because, dear Avon, you're not going to remember any of this conversation. No, I'm not going to hypnotize you. I don't have time, and you wouldn't be a good subject. I also don't have the equipment to mindwipe you. In any case, I don't need to."

Carnell takes a deep breath. "Remember that year we were roommates, Avon? I did a little experiment using you as an unwitting subject. Yes, I know how unethical it was. Since you were so busy using your terminal to change everyone's grades, I didn't think you'd complain about my little project. I wanted to see what kinds of personalities were responsive to subconscious conditioning. It turned out that your excessive rigidity made you extremely susceptible, very easy to manipulate.

"I implanted a keyword in your memory, a key phrase, actually. The words only work when spoken by me in your presence. I've already spoken them. I can now influence your mind, not all of it, but the nuances of it, especially regarding recently acquired information and impressions, that haven't had enough time to become locked in. I can make you forget things, prime you for future influences. Oh, a good mnemotech could restore your memory, but you'll never recall that you need one."

Carnell smiles broadly. "Oh yes, Avon," he almost croons, "you were an excellent subject. I'm only sorry I had to wait twenty five years to finish my experiment."

Avon is numb, beyond surprise or disgust. This is the worst, the most frightening thing he has ever experienced. A conspiracy that reaches over twenty-five years! It dwarfs Avon's reason, humbles him, crushes him. He has been called cold, manipulative, self centered, all true; but Carnell far surpasses him in these traits. All Avon can do is ask, softly, "Why do you hate me so much, Carnell? What did I ever do to you?"

For the second time, Carnell is genuinely surprised. "Hate you, Avon? I don't hate you. This isn't personal, you understand. I needed a subject and you were there. Now I need a way back into Servalan's good graces, and again you're convenient. I mean, don't **elevate** yourself, Avon. Don't **presume** that you mean anything to me. You never have."

With that, Carnell grabs Avon and stands him upright. He checks his bracelet, locks the clasp - Avon wouldn't have been able to leave before Carnell primed him; a master puppeteer leaves nothing to chance. Then he takes Avon's head in his hands. "Now listen to me, Avon. You will forget everything you have heard since I said the words 'I set this all up, Avon.' When you return to the ship, you will remember only that you came here looking for me, that you were captured, and that your crewmates ran off and abandoned you to Servalan. You will resent them bitterly for this and be furious at them. If they ask how you got away, you will tell them that Servalan found us together, that she killed me, and that you grabbed the bracelet off my wrist and teleported while we were fighting.

"After that you will have nothing to do with them. You will await further instructions from the next person who says the trigger phrase to you. It will come to you through Orac. You will follow those instructions slavishly, obsessively, even, if necessary. You will tell your crew nothing about your instructions. You will hate your crew and kill them if they try to get in your way. And you will always remember that phrase, **Avon...always**."

Avon stands there stiff and still as a statue. Carnell checks his eyes. Satisfied, he lifts Avon's wrist and places the bracelet to Avon's lips. "Say the words, Avon," he whispers. "Call the ship and say the words."

As if he is alone, as if he can't see Carnell, Avon fingers the bracelet. " **Liberator** , are you there? **Liberator** , this is Avon. Bring me up, please."

Vila's voice comes through, almost shrieking. "Avon!" he screams. "Are you okay? How are you? Shall I bring you up? Avon, is it really you?"

Avon snorts. Same old Vila...same old useless Vila. He realizes that he is angry with Vila...angry with all of them, in fact. Very angry. "Do you really care if I'm okay?" he sneers. "Just bring me up. **Now** ," he orders. He drops his wrists to his side and waits.

Carnell backs away just a little. He is very pleased with himself. "Remember, Avon. Wait for the phrase."

Avon vanishes. Carnell observes the teleport effect, which he finds very weird. It's funny, he reflects, it takes so long when you watch it, but no time at all when you experience it. One second you're on the ship, the next nanosecond you're somewhere else. Brave new world.

"Carnell!" He turns around at the sound of his name. Servalan is there, at the door to this vault-like part of the basement. Odd. He hadn't heard her arrive. She is in a black jumpsuit, very efficient. Still sexy as hell.

She is furious. "Where is Avon? What have you done with him?" she screams. He just stands there, a slight smile on his face. Outraged, Servalan strikes him as hard as she can. He falls to the floor, bloodied, but still smiling. Stern troopers crowd around him, guns pointed at his head. Carnell can't stop smiling

 


	24. Part Twenty-three

"Avon! What happened down there?" Cally asks. She has been standing in front of the teleport control; when he appears, she runs to him, tries to embrace him. He brushes past her brusquely, shoulders through Vila and Tarrant, doesn't even look at Dayna. Heads for his cabin, walking like a dead man on a hike.

"Cally, look after him. The rest of you, we've got a ship to get out of here," Tarrant orders. He heads for the flight deck. Seconds later, so do Vila and Dayna, though not before casting startled looks after Avon's wake.

Inside his cabin, Avon sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, elbows on his thighs. Weary. Exhausted, in fact. A burning fury splitting his head like the worst migraine there ever was.

He is back. Safe. Away from that... **woman**. Home.

Hah! Home, he thinks. With these betrayers. They hate me and I hate them. She captured me and they let her have me. Never again. They can go to hell and rot for all I care.

Then he is aware of something outside the cavernous cauldron of his mind. He hears a voice calling a name. His name. Cally's voice.

"Avon, please, let me talk to you. It's Cally. We're all very concerned about you. Oh really? he thinks savagely. You weren't so concerned when you abandoned me, were you?

"Avon, are you all right? What happened down there? Please tell me." Why? What difference does it make? I survived. No thanks to you. "Avon? I'm leaving now. I'll be on the flight deck if you decide you want to talk." Don't hold your breath. I'm never talking to any of you again. I hate you.

Holding that thought, he sits on the bed and broods. The pain and anger cycle, come and go. When he doesn't pay attention, it might almost be like old times, when he wasn't one with them, but didn't despise them, either.

Avon broods on his fear and anger. Tries to think himself into a righteous rage against them. It isn't easy. He feels this tremendous anger against them, a vast unreasoning storm of fury. But when he tries to penetrate that storm, he reaches only its eye, wherein all is calm and he has to **force** himself to remember that he hates them all. They abandoned me, didn't they? he thinks. They left me to her...to die. They betrayed me. Didn't they?

He isn't sure. But when he tries to reason it out, vast pain shrieks through his skull. In the end it is easier to give himself up to his anger and hate. To his fear.

Carnell's mouth is bloody, stained by Servalan's blow. He grins redly, his lips rouged and dripping. He is lying in the dust, his cheek smarting, his eyes unfocused. Still, the situation is as pleasing to him as a honeymoon. He waits a few seconds for his head to clear, then clumsily rises to his feet.

Servalan's fury has not abated. If anything, it has increased, been augmented by his impertinence in refusing to show fear in her presence. "Where is Avon?" she repeats. "Answer me, you fool!"

"I let him go," Carnell mumbles, his voice low but not without a hint of triumph in it. Her blank, popeyed stare is as dear to him as a medal.

"You let him go!" she screams.

"Yes," he replies, facing her with no fear at all on his face, in his eyes or voice. "I had my reasons."

"I'll just bet you did. The way you had your reasons for depriving me of IMIPAK?"

"Suppose I told you that wasn't my fault. That my prediction was faulty because I didn't have complete information. Would that make a difference?"

"Carnell, that's irrelevant. I was going to kill you then. Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now."

"All right. I'll tell you. But in privacy, secrecy. This isn't something anyone else should hear." She stares at him, astonished by his impudence. Also by his confidence, his assurance, his ease. He really believes he has something to tell her that will save his miserable life! Servalan has always admired confidence, coolness under fire. Carnell is as cool as anyone she has ever seen.

"Very well," she concedes. "Take him to the ship."

The troopers grab him, cuff his hands behind his back, quick-march him out of the basement, up the several flights of stairs to the bar, through the ruined main room, now **truly** a space dog's nightmare, and up to street level. Where a hovervan is waiting. Servalan sits up front, Carnell is shoved into the back with the grunt-level troopies. Who smell of old beer and older dirt. Carnell wrinkles his nose. Won't be much longer, he thinks. Soon I'll be well and truly **home**.

The trip passes slowly. He knows better than to risk conversation with these sub-moronic soldier boys. Servalan likes them loyal and stupid, he thinks. To amuse himself, he thinks back over his long and fabled career, fabled all the more so because no one knows just how much he's actually accomplished. The best puppeteers are always like that. Fame would be a measure of failure, not success. Only he knows what he's done. That's enough, of course. What needs he the plaudits of the people? He is above them, after all. He is above everyone and everything; this latest escapade has proved that, once and for all. Except there's never an end to things. Time to start figuring out what to do next.

At last they are on board Servalan's black ship. Ensconced in her bug-proof safe-room. The crew are preparing to take off, bring her back to Earth, to death or glory. She is concerned only with Carnell. He finds that admirable, her bravery, her singlemindedness.

"I've given you all the time you're getting, Carnell," she says, menace dripping from her voice. "Tell me now why I shouldn't kill you instantly."

"Why would you want to do that, Madame President?" he asks, **his** voice dripping with irony and self-satisfaction.

She flares up. "You can ask that? After what you've done?"

"Why, what **have** I done?"

She wants to strike him again, rip that smug smile off his face. She stifles the impulse, aware that it will be more satisfying to wait and exact her entire revenge on him at once, after he's failed to justify himself to her.

"What have you **done**?" she shrieks. "You've let Avon go, you fool! Ruined my plans! Probably guaranteed my arrest by the Council! And you expect me to let you go?"

Carnell is shaking his head, tsk-tsking as if confirmed in some secret knowledge. It is infuriating! She grabs his shoulders, shakes him, yelling at him to stop. Easily, with a strength that surprises her, he frees himself from her grasp, stands back a few paces.

"First things first, Madame President. You're in no danger at all from the Council. I think I can assure you of that. In fact, it won't be long now before you're finished with Councillor Chritas once and for all.

"Now, as for Avon. Yes. I let him go. Do you want to know why? Tell me, what good politically would Avon be to you if the **Liberator** was still free to fly around committing more terrorist outrages?" He stops as if he really expects an answer.

She fumbles for one. "Well, I would think he's the main threat to us, **Liberator** or not. Without him, the rest of them aren't as dangerous."

"True, he's an extraordinary man. But that's no ordinary ship, either. And the rest of them are still a serious problem, especially **with** that ship. Right?" Sullenly, she nods.

"Good. Now suppose I could **promise** you a way to get both Avon **and** the ship. Intact. Delivered right into your hands. With no casualties. What would you say?"

"I'm no fool, Carnell. First I'd ask, how could you promise all that?"

"See, Madame President? It wasn't that hard to talk with me rather than making all those blustering threats, now, was it?"

"Get to the point, Carnell. I may still kill you."

"Oh no you won't, Madame President. Not when I tell you what you should be doing next."

As he explains the details of his little plot, she gasps at the elegance of it all. Yes, Carnell is right, she thinks. This **has** to work. There's no way it can fail.

So delighted is she with his plan's brilliance, it never occurs to her to ask **how** it is that Carnell knows so much about Avon. It also never occurs to her to ask what, if anything, Carnell **isn't** telling her.

**Liberator** is once again an unhappy ship. The others are mystified. After they've risked so much to go back and rescue Avon, why is he treating them like the enemy? Dayna, especially, is hurt, although Vila isn't far behind her. Tarrant, of course, figures it's just like Avon to resent having had to be rescued, and therefore treating his rescuers like dirt. Cally knows him better, knows he's in genuine pain and confusion. But what's causing it, she hasn't a clue.

The flight deck is like a reception area at a funeral home. Muted whispering has replaced full-bodied speech. Orac is chuckling softly to itself as it completes yet another unfathomable **tour de force** of voluminous research. Zen is virtually flying the ship by itself.

Avon walks onto the flight deck, his face dark and inscrutable. Cally rushes up to him to welcome him back to the living. He flashes a murderous glare at her, freezes her dead in her tracks. Its intensity startles her, frightens her. This is not the Avon she knew just a day or so before. What **happened** down there to do this to him?

"Well, hello Avon," Vila offers. "Come to join us? About time, I'd say." He's been drinking, just a little, nothing too much, only a couple...nothing he can't handle. It has lowered his sensitivity, however, so he misses the interplay between Avon and Cally.

"Drop dead," Avon mutters, before walking up to Orac and picking up the supercomputer. Vila is deeply hurt by the retort. Shares a quizzical glance with Dayna. What the hell's wrong with **him**?

"Glad you're here," says Tarrant. The others may be at Avon's mercy, he thinks, but not **me**! "We're well away from Fontina. Any ideas as to what we should try next?"

"Have you considered suicide, Tarrant?" Avon says, walking off the flight deck with Orac in his hands, not even looking at the pilot as he says it. Then he is gone. Leaving behind bewildered, frightened crewmates.

They rush out after him, catch him up in the corridor, surround him. "Avon!" Dayna pleads. "What's the matter? Why won't you talk to us?" Cally tries to touch him on the shoulder, recoils as he spins, arm raised as though to strike, face contorted in a grimace of rage and hatred.

" **Leave me alone**!" he thunders. "I want nothing to do with any of you! Understand? Frankly, I don't care if you do or don't. Just leave me the hell alone. Forever. I'll be taking my watches **alone**. If any of you approach me, **I'll kill you**." With that, he walks away, disappears into the crew lounge.

Behind him, his former crewmates can only stare at each other in silent shock.

 


	25. Epilogue

The standing ovation is music to Servalan's ears. It is a week since she was last in the Council Chamber, and the experience that time was by no means as pleasant. Her entrance this time is triumphal, epochal, broadcast to the entire Federation **live**. Most pleasant of all, Chritas is nowhere to be seen. Naturally. The Council Room is large, but it does not extend all the way to Cygnus Alpha.

She takes her place at the head of the table. All eyes are upon her. Bercol and Dalbeen are beaming, their faces shining with genuine delight. Sixteen new Councillors share in their joy.

Servalan stands there, drinking it all in. For minutes on end she basks in their applause and cheers. Her smile is authentic, not feigned. This is the grandest moment of her career. She is about to declare herself Empress of the Galaxy. It has been a long time coming, this ultimate triumph. She feel she has well earned it.

Finally the applause dies away. It has taken an astonishingly long time - no one wanted to be the first at the table to stop clapping. Finally she can speak. Her lips still curved in that rare real smile, she beams at them all. "Fellow Councillors. Honored Guests. Citizens of the Federation.

"I thank you for that generous welcome. It is good to be back at the heart of my life, the center of government of our beloved Federation. It is good to be back with my comrades, my colleagues in government, my dear friends. I have excellent news to report.

"First of all, the conspiracy to overthrow the lawful rule of the Council has been checked and defeated. The traitor Chritas has confessed to his many crimes. The Tribunal accepted his plea for mercy and has condemned him to life imprisonment on Cygnus Alpha. His followers and accomplices have been rooted out and executed. The investigation is continuing. You will be kept informed of the results.

"I am sorry to say the trail of treachery led into the Council itself. Those who partook of the conspiracy have been deposed and jailed. I welcome all the new loyal Councillors who will join us in carrying the Federation to new heights of glory.

"The traitor Chritas did not limit his ambitions to controlling Earth. He set his sights on the planet Fontina as well. His attempts to induce anarchy and revolution there unfortunately came all too close to succeeding. At the request of the planetary authorities, a fleet of Federation cruisers and units of the Space Service are now attempting to re-establish order on that unhappy planet. The Fontina Council of Consuls has submitted a formal application for entry into the Federation. Fellow Councillors, on their behalf, I move that we accept their application and welcome Fontina back into the Terran Federation!"

With a roar of approval, her motion is carried by acclamation. The roar continues. Finally, it subsides. Dalbeen stands. His voice betraying not a whit of a stammer this time, he offers an invocation to the Madame President. "What a triumph this is!" he exults. "Madame President Servalan has re-Federated an important planet without conquest! Surely she is the greatest strategist of all time." Another roar of approval greets this statement. Somewhere nearby, though, a pair of eyes are watching this on a flatscreen viewer. The face to which the eyes belong is smiling broadly.

Back in the Council Chamber, Servalan has taken up her oration again. "Fellow Councillors, I have even better news to report. For years we have suffered the depredations of the terrorist gang known colloquially as 'Blake's Seven.' Using their stolen starship, the **Liberator** , they have committed countless outrages against the law-abiding citizens of the Federation. Fellow Councillors, I am happy to report the imminent capture of the **Liberator** and the destruction of the scourge of her occupants. Within a week, this threat will have disappeared once and for all. And we will have the **Liberator** to use in the Re-Federation. Fellow Councillors, victory will finally be ours!"

This time, the ovation, the storm of applause, the roar of approval, goes on forever. Servalan drinks it all in, the gracious sovereign enjoying the congratulations of her grateful courtiers. After this, she thinks, nothing can stop her from claiming the title of empress. All in all, a good day's work. Then, she abandons herself to the cataract of applause, loses herself in the volcano of noise. A well-deserved ovation. And all for her.

Somewhere, in fact in Servalan's secret office, someone is watching and smiling. His incredibly pale blue eyes shining, his mouth curved in a sardonic, superior smile. He is watching it all, Servalan's triumph, her extraordinary speech, the Council's reaction. Watching it all and smiling.

Still smiling, he walks over to a highly sophisticated communications complex. New, the latest in high-tech. Just delivered, in fact, right from the factory. On his orders. Sitting down at the node control, he calls up a message file. Making sure he has the addressee's coordinates exactly right, he commands the system to send it off. Listens while the script plays itself out. Still smiling. Always, always smiling.

No one is smiling on the **Liberator.** Avon has seen to that The atmosphere is as cold as vacuum. The rest of the crew have been infected with it. Dayna and Cally aren't talking, Tarrant is sulking in his cabin, Vila is drinking in his. Avon is on the flight deck, with Orac, which he has been holding like a security blanket. Tarrant was piloting the ship until Avon entered. One look from the computer tech convinced the pilot not to challenge him.

Avon sits there in the well, Orac on his knees, thoughts of death and betrayal on his mind. He has been unable to concentrate on anything else. Oddly enough, it is easiest to hate the others when they're around, in his presence. When he's alone, he finds that hatred is replaced by rage...against what, he isn't sure. Still, rage is easier to deal with than the intense pain that accompanies the hatred he feels whenever one of the others is around. Is loneliness forever to be his fate?

There was a time when he thought that might not be so. There was a time when **Liberator** was the home he never knew. Early on, when they had defeated the Federation several times, but before Blake developed his obsession about Star One. There was a time when he thought he could actually follow Blake, believe in his fight Before the madness struck the rebel leader. Oh Blake, he thinks. When you said you trusted me, you never said what a **burden** that would be! He sighs. He is exhausted. It is very hard to maintain constant anger and hatred.

*Avon, I am receiving a message for you, says Orac.

"From where?" he answers dully.

*I'm not sure,* the supercomputer replies. *But it is in the special code you set up for crewmembers only.*

 **That** gets Avon's attention. A message for him in crewcode? That means it's either from...or from...

"Go ahead, Orac. I'm listening."

*It is a visual signal, Avon. I am transferring it to the screen.*

Avon gasps. There on the screen, smiling. It's Blake. Bearded, hair much longer than before, face seamed with care and trouble, but undoubtedly Blake.

"Blake!" he cries. "Where are you calling from? We heard you were dead!"

"Hello Avon. I almost **was** dead. I'm still not fully recovered. But I'm getting better." The smile disappears. "Now listen, Avon. I've got to see you as soon as possible. Just you, no one else."

"Why, Blake?"

"Because. I've set this all up. For the two of us. It's everything you've always wanted, Avon. I've found a source of great wealth, incalculable wealth. Enough for me to overthrow the Federation. Enough for you to buy your own planet. Freedom, Avon. Permanent, unbreakable. All you've got to do is come here and help me get it."

"Where is 'here,' Blake?"

"Remember, Avon. Just you. None of the others. **Don't** tell them where you're going. This has to be between you and me. Understand? I trust **you** , Avon, not them."

Avon glows. Of course Blake trusts only him. "I understand perfectly, Blake. But where am I supposed to go?"

"Where I am now, Avon. A little planet called Terminal."

 


End file.
